


The View from the Window

by bad_peppermint



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Harlequin, Harlequin Big Bang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bad_peppermint/pseuds/bad_peppermint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life doesn't usually deal Ryan the best cards, so he's pleasantly surprised when the man he is intended to marry turns out to be sweet, kind, and handsome - everything Ryan could ask for in a husband. But Jon is also a busy man, leaving Ryan to fend for himself on his intimidating country estate, with only the disapproving staff for company. Ryan wouldn't mind so much if Jon would just marry him already, but Jon won't have the ceremony without his father there, and his father simply will not return from his hunting trip. And to top it all off, Jon isn't going to be happy when he discovers the mutt Ryan has managed to smuggle in...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View from the Window

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever find yourself thinking that you won't be able to find a beta at all, and then you suddenly end up with more than you can shake a stick at? Well, I could not have done it without [AngeNoir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir), [daniomalley22](http://daniomalley22.livejournal.com/) and [attackegg](http://attackegg.livejournal.com/), who all suffered through this with me beautifully. My eternal gratitude goes to each of you. ♥ Also a huge hug&thanks to the mods over at [harlequinbbang](http://harlequinbbang.livejournal.com/) for getting the whole thing off the ground.
> 
> The absolutely fabulous art for this story is by [littlestclouds](http://littlestclouds.livejournal.com/). It's whimsical and sweet and everything I didn't know I wanted, and the mix fits the story just right. ^_^ The masterpost is [here](http://benched.livejournal.com/214204.html), so head on over and share your love.

 

Light was fading fast, and Ryan had yet to reach the Walker estate. Out the carriage window, there were fields and trees. For hours, there had been nothing but fields and trees. Ryan had half a mind to knock on the roof and ask Hall, his father’s coachman, how much longer it would be, but the man had looked distinctly unhappy with Ryan the last time he had done so, and while there wasn’t anything he could do to Ryan, he still had his doubts that Hall’s answer of “We’ll have to see, Mr. Ross,” would be greatly changed.

So instead of rapping his knuckles against the wood, he shifted on his seat in a vain attempt at finding a more comfortable spot, and sighed. They had passed a little town a few miles back, just barely big enough for a church and a handful of shops, which was the last time he had seen anything even remotely resembling civilization.

They hadn’t stopped. Aside from a short break at a roadside inn, Ryan had been sat in this carriage since just after dawn. They’d departed from Ryan’s house, his father’s house, as soon as it was light enough to travel safely. Now the sun was low over the horizon once again, and the streets were once again quiet and deserted, but the countryside the carriage rattled through looked nothing like the home Ryan had left behind. The trees were poor entertainment, despite the way their leaves had slowly begun to turn gold, and when they’d started to look a little _too_ foreign for Ryan’s tastes, Ryan had turned his face resolutely away from the window. He’d also had to give up on reading as a distraction early on, as squinting at the small text while the carriage rattled and jostled had made him feel quite sick to his stomach, and then with there being nothing for him to look at, he had had nothing to do all day but succumb to boredom and worried thoughts.

In fact, he had had little else to do ever since his father had informed him of the engagement, since he had been summoned into his father’s study late one morning and told that he would soon be wed. Between that day, gripping the armrests of his chair with white-knuckled force, and finding himself helped into the carriage by his father’s calloused hand, accompanied by a string of advice and encouragement, barely a week had gone by. Nevertheless, however, it had been more than enough time to work himself into an emotional, though well-contained frenzy.

Admittedly, Ryan had not taken the news as well as he himself would have liked. It wasn’t as though he’d had any illusions about marrying for love, although he had to admit to a certain weak spot for the adventure novels in which the hero and his eventual spouse overcame a great many difficulties together and inevitably found themselves in love, as well. No, marrying for love was for people who could afford it. Ryan, whose grand inheritance was eventually going to be a narrow townhouse in a minor seaport and a kind but elderly housekeeper, had always known that his main criteria in a marriage partner would be that he or she have the means to keep them and their possible children alive and well.

He had, however, hoped that he would at least have the opportunity to meet his spouse, to determine basic compatibility, or at the very least have heard their name before. The Walkers, who he was supposed to marry into, lived inland, a full day’s journey away, and not even the wildest gossip mill carried that far.

So he’d sat, dumbfounded, and half-listened to the arguments laid out for him. They had quite a bit of land, his father had informed him, but not very much money. The fact that Ryan was not set to inherit much either was of no consequence to them – they lived comfortably, and as there were no further heirs needed, Ryan was to be company above anything else.

Company, Ryan could provide. Whatever else people might whisper about him, no one could deny that he was intelligent, well-read and musically inclined. He only hoped that that was what Mr. Walker was looking for in a spouse, and not someone to parade around at social events like a trained dog, someone to show off and preen about. Because if that was the case, Hall would not even have time to unload Ryan’s luggage before Ryan was helped back into the carriage and returned home.

Assuming, of course, the man was actually at the estate when Ryan arrived. Mr. Walker had been intending to go on a trip – a business trip, Ryan thought. But he’d assured Ryan’s father in the letters they’d exchanged that he would return well in time for Ryan’s arrival, and would not leave Ryan to settle in on his own.

The comfort Ryan took from this fact was slight but real. He himself hadn’t had the chance to communicate with his future husband, but his father had read to him excerpts from several letters, and despite the brisk, business-focused tone of the writing, Mr. Walker seemed like an educated, intelligent man that Ryan might enjoy a conversation with. Considering the matter at hand, the writings sounded welcoming enough, even read aloud in his father’s stern voice. Yes, if Ryan did indeed have to move into – with the intent of marrying into – another family without having so much as exchanged a quick note with his husband to be, he could not have asked for a kinder invitation. And yet, his palms grew damp and his stomach churned uncomfortably whenever he allowed himself to dwell on his complete lack of interaction with his intended. Ryan knew he was shy enough to draw disapproving attention, and he’d come to understand that he didn’t always make the most favorable first impression – although the Fates help him if he could figure out why.

Ryan sighed and tried to smooth out his frown, knowing Hall would give him a warning look if he were inside the carriage to see it. Another unfortunate characteristic of Ryan’s was his tendency to brood when left to his own devices, a habit no amount of scolding had ever broken him of. He couldn't help it. It was just far too easy to slip off into the thoughts occupying his own head, and lose himself there. It probably didn't help that Ryan was also quite fond of reading, because although he intended it as a means of distracting himself from his darkening thoughts, they provided his already quite active imagination with even more disastrous scenarios to choose from.

Still, he could never quite get enough of it. Unfortunately, he had been told that he overindulged in the pastime by so many people that he had been forced to concede that they were right and he was wrong simply by being ridiculously outnumbered.

So now, no longer allowed to occupy himself with books but with his thoughts thoroughly infused with the many, many works he had read in the past, Ryan had come into the habit of daydreaming the idle hours away. He’d always liked to imagine himself in far-off places, having daring adventures, but even he had to admit that his tendency to lose himself in his own head had gotten away from him lately.

His favorite scenario at the moment was, by some accident, discovering a treasonous plot and being forced to flee in the middle of the night. Carriages rattling away in the darkness, distant gunshots, it all sounded terribly exciting. All with a happy ending, of course, and the eternal gratitude of some handsome nobleman or –woman – that particular line of thought never failed to bring a smile to Ryan’s lips.

He was less fond of the recently surfaced version that involved stowing away on a merchant ship. It sounded easy enough in the books, but those stowaways were inevitably discovered, as well, and while it always worked out well for them in the end, Ryan wasn’t sure he wanted to stake his bets on it.

A sharp rap on the roof startled him out of his musings. He appreciated it nonetheless, for when he leaned forward to peer out of the small window, there was a building rising up in the distance that just had to be the one they were headed for.

Ryan wet his lips absent-mindedly, straining to see in the encroaching darkness. He was grateful to the coachman for alerting him, certainly, because Cavelley Hall was quite the sight to behold. Not like the ornate, playful estates to the south, elaborate and eye-catching and yet ordinary. No, this building was imposing in its sternness, the severe lines that would weather even the grimmest of storms.

It was, Ryan had to admit, more than a little intimidating.

Ryan had been to a country estate once in his life, when his cousin had married the younger daughter of a baroness. He’d been too young to care much about his inferior appearance, although his aunt and uncle had done their best to bring his wardrobe up to par. What _had_ captured his attention were the tall, sunny halls, the endless windows, the frescos on the ceilings, the library with rows upon rows of books free of creases and broken spines. He remembered gaping up at the ceilings with his mouth hanging open, and the only reason he hadn’t lost their group within moments was his father’s ever-tightening grip on his hand.

He couldn’t be sure, of course, that the whole thing hadn’t appeared greater and grander to Ryan’s young mind than it had been in reality, but he was nevertheless reasonably certain that the Walker residence was nowhere near in opulence to the household they had visited then. Yes, Cavelley Hall was decently sized, certainly larger than the house Ryan had grown up in, but it was still of a size that could be found in the grander parts of a city. With only two stories and a countable number of windows, it was more a mansion than an estate, and Ryan had the sneaking suspicion that the man waiting on the steps by the entrance was less dwarfed by the building than simply short.

Ryan heard Hall call something to the horses, and then they turned, wheels rattling, into the lane. When the carriage slowed, Ryan had the chance to take a closer look at the figure awaiting them. He was indeed of short stature, but held himself in a way only people of a certain rank and status would, not stiffly but with an innate confidence that Ryan had always envied. His clothes were of fine fabric and no doubt carefully sewn, but still simple, which, considering the muddy drive, made a lot of sense. Ryan thought perhaps he looked a little nervous, a little anxious, swaying on his feet while Hall climbed off his seat and came around to open Ryan’s door.

The man rushed forward just about as soon as was proper, but drew up short when Hall offered his hand for Ryan to take and helped him down the steps with the other sure on Ryan’s waist. The movement wasn’t kind on Ryan’s already rumpled suit, and he tugged it into place hurriedly before he allowed himself another quick look at the man awaiting his arrival.

"Mr. Walker?" he asked uncertainly.

The man before him was unexpectedly young, with closely shorn hair and a sweet smile. "That's me," he said. "And you're Mr. Ross."

It wasn't quite a question, but questioning enough to not be rude, and when Ryan nodded, Mr. Walker's smile widened in pleasure.

"Welcome to Cavelley Hall, Mr. Ross," he said. "I hope you will find happiness here."

So did Ryan, but he didn't dare say that aloud. He attempted a smile of his own instead.

"Thank you," he said softly. He didn’t dare to give his future husband a thorough perusal, but he still chanced a look out of the corner of his eye, only to find the man looking back with open curiosity. Caught, he ducked his head. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Walker.”

“Jon,” the man corrected quickly. “Please, call me Jon.”

“Jon,” Ryan repeated, the familiar address strange and foreign on his tongue.

Mr. Walker smiled brightly at that, a slow, warm smile that went a long way to ease the tight knot in Ryan’s stomach.

“That’s right,” he said, eyes narrowing to pleased little slits.

“Then you must call me Ryan,” he replied, partly because it was expected of him, but also because he wanted to hear Jon say it, wanted to hear him curl his tongue around the syllables. If he and _Jon_ were to be married, Ryan wanted to hear the way his name, his real name, fell from his husband’s lips.

A small crease formed between Jon’s brows. “Not George?” he asked.

Ryan could feel a silly, useless blush spread over his cheeks. “No, not – not George.”

Instead of pressing, as Ryan had been sure he would, Jon nodded slowly. “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “Ryan.”

A hesitant smile wormed its way onto Ryan’s still-warm face. It sounded… nice. His name from Jon’s lips sounded very, very nice.

He startled a little when Ryan’s trunk thumped heavily onto the ground next to him, and Hall swung himself down from the back of the post chaise with an expression that wasn’t quite amused. He wiped his hands together and then came to stand just behind Ryan, towering over both of them, but Ryan’s – Ryan’s future husband especially. Jon didn’t look particularly put out when he glanced up at the man, but Ryan was still uncomfortably aware that Hall was currently not even trying to make himself appear less intimidating.

“This is Hall,” he said with a stilted gesture.

As if to make up for it, Jon’s smile was particularly warm. “Mr. Hall,” he said. “I owe you my gratitude for making sure Mr. Ross arrived safely at his new home.”

Hall nodded politely, but silently. “Where should this go?” he asked instead, lifting Ryan’s trunk up like it weighed nothing. It contained little except Ryan’s clothes, so perhaps to him, it didn’t.

Jon nodded. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Ophis!” he called.

A moment later, a second man, in rough worker’s clothes, arrived around the side of the house with two lanterns, one of which Jon accepted with a nod. He held it up high to illuminate their faces in the dimming light. “Mr. Ophis will help you with the luggage and horses and show you your quarters for the night.”

Hall bobbed his head but didn’t say anything more, turning to the new arrival instead. Ryan, unsure of the etiquette of the situation, couldn’t even say if he _should_ have. So he smiled uncertainly, hoping it would be taken as an apology should one be required, and linked his hands behind his back to forestall any unseemly fidgeting.

Jon’s smile was growing a little stilted as well, and he extended a hand towards the entrance while the other found its way behind his back. “Shall we head inside?” he said. “I’m sure you’d like to warm up a little after those long hours in the carriage. I work at the family offices in the city, so I am unfortunately quite accustomed to the weariness of long journeys.”

Ryan remembered to say, “Yes, thank you,” after a moment, forcing his stiff limbs to follow Jon when he began to move.

The large wooden doors creaked when Jon pushed them open, revealing a spacious entrance hall with a large staircase leading to the second story beyond. It wasn’t easy to make out details in the sparse light of Jon’s lamp, but Ryan could see a wall-drape depicting a knight on a rearing horse, most likely one of the original Walkers. The high windows let in very little light at this hour, and it was cold.

Ryan didn’t let himself wrap his arms around his torso to stave off the chill when he turned to face Jon expectantly.

Jon, who was currently sporting a slightly apprehensive expression, said, “I hope you’re not quite so stuck on the old ways, because we will not have a chaperone accompany us.”

Ryan nodded, trying not to look too scandalized. It was fairly common by now that men and women could spend time alone so long as they had declared no romantic intention towards one another, but to leave an engaged couple entirely to their own devices was still quite out of the ordinary. He’d heard that city folks were a bit more lenient about the rules of propriety, though, and he supposed Jon with his job there had to count as such. He’d never heard of a person being left so utterly alone with their intended, but he was already feeling out of his depth – he wasn’t about to go admitting it to his future husband. So he simply dipped his head and prayed that word never got back to the social circles in Swanns that had already seemed to despise Ryan when he’d done his damndest to stay in their good graces.

But then again, maybe if Ryan delivered them a scandal worth chattering about, perhaps they’d forget to criticize his awkward figure and his fashion choices and his father’s lack of breeding. It wasn’t very likely, but Ryan had never been much of a realist. Besides his own shortcomings, of course – he was more than aware of those.

Jon, it seemed, experienced nothing of the nervousness that was making Ryan light-headed and ill at ease, and made a sweeping, smiling gesture. “Would you like to take a look around your new home?” he asked.

Ryan would have liked to be shown his bedcovers and curl up underneath them until all this was over, but that was hardly a viable option. So he smiled again, hoping it appeared more natural this time, and said, “Please,” instead.

“Excellent,” Jon said, grinning. “This is the entrance hall, as you can tell. Perhaps you’d like to take off your outerwear?”

He took Ryan’s hat and coat from him and hung it up in the coat room himself, something Ryan would have done as well, had he been at home, but had not expected to see in an estate such as this.

“Some of the rooms aren’t quite fit to spend time in at the moment,” Jon said upon his return. “We don’t usually have guests, or social events, so we lock up some of the rooms to protect the furnishings. You are, of course, welcome to look around.”

“Do you not care for the social scene, then?” Ryan asked, trying to ignore the hopeful thump of his heart.

Jon turned his head away, and then peered at Ryan out of the corner of his eyes. “Father’s not much for gossiping,” he said. “He prefers the countryside to social events, but with Mother gone, I do fear he gets rather lonely out here.”

Ryan, unsure how to address that particular issue, adopted a sympathetic frown. “I do understand his reasoning,” he said cautiously. “I’ve found that there’s little talk of interest to me at the town balls and festivals.”

“I agree,” Jon said, eyes crinkling. “That’s why we shall be spending most of our time far away from them, which I assume you’ll find quite agreeable.” He tilted his head to the side, considering. “Unfortunately the lack of social interaction means Father does not have much to entertain him, besides his correspondence and the occasional hunt. I’ve been keeping him company as best I can, but…” He shrugged an uncomfortable shoulder. “I’m away on business quite often, and I can hardly distract him adequately with talk of corn prices.” He smiled a little. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”

Ryan turned away from Jon’s earnest expression, the soft smile that made his heart clench in unfamiliar ways, and turned on his heel to take in the faded grandeur of the hall. “I’ll be spending most of my time here, then?” he asked quietly.

“I would assume so,” Jon said, nodding seriously.

“Will I be expected to attend very many balls?” Ryan asked, trying not to let his trepidation show. He had his doubts about the success of the undertaking, but in any case, Jon was too kind to let his amusement show. He tried on a smile. "If your father is not very keen on them?"

“Not very many, no,” Jon said, gently, like Ryan imagined he would address a spooked pet or a tearful child. “This is hardly the city. Balls are quite an event out here, but they are few and far between.” He smiled softly. “No one will force you to make yourself miserable.”

He tilted his head towards one of the corridors leading to the rooms on the lower level, a silent _Shall we?_ , and Ryan nodded.

Jon smiled, and set off, speaking over his shoulder. “We have very limited staff, I’m afraid,” he said, turning back to Ryan even as he pushed open a large set of doors to reveal the parlor beyond. “A groundskeeper and manservant, and a cook. With just myself and Father here, they see to all our needs.”

He looked at Ryan expectantly, and Ryan nodded. It seemed like very expansive an estate to only be maintained by two servants, but the house Ryan had lived in with his father had been kept by their Mrs. Dowerter all on her own, and Ryan neither expected nor needed a large entourage to help him through the day.

“This is where we take our meals,” Jon said, gesturing at the long but narrow dining table. He grinned a little. “I assume you are quite a bit famished after that long journey, so I thought I might show you this first. It’s the only room on the lower level that’s currently in use, besides the servants’ quarters, so it should be easy enough to find.”

Ryan looked discreetly around in the semi-darkness, at the stained dark furniture and the tasteful, if somewhat outdated décor. Then Jon gently ushered him back out the door and into the entrance hall, and then up the stairs and along the corridor leading, unless Ryan was quite mistaken, east.

There was dust in the air, stirred up by shuffling footsteps, and while it made sense with so little staff that the rooms would not be as clean here as elsewhere, Ryan’s lungs certainly did not appreciate it. It didn’t help that the halls were illuminated by nothing but the lamp in Jon’s hand, giving the portraits on the walls a rather sinister countenance. Stern-faced men and stiff-backed women sat arranged on chaise-lounges and around tastefully assembled flower bouquets. Ryan hunched his shoulders against their disapproving stares and made certain to stay at Jon’s heels, though the man seemed not to notice Ryan’s upset and what had caused it.

Instead, he pointed out certain rooms as they passed them – his father’s bedroom, his own, one for Jon’s brothers when they came for a visit. It made sense, of course: two older brothers, each with children of their own, would leave Jon free to marry whomever he pleased, without the need to produce an heir to continue the family name.

As Ryan had plenty of cousins and the Ross name was certain to be carried over into the next generations, Ryan was also free to find an advantageous match with a person of a gender of his own choosing, which was quite pleasant, as Ryan’s preferences quite clearly ran towards men. Jon’s explanation, he assumed, was Jon’s way of telling him he felt the same, which was, quite honestly, a relief. However, it also set Jon off on a tangent about his brothers’ spouses, their children and friends, and Ryan’s head was so full trying to remember names and places that it seemed like an eternity before Jon came to a halt.

"This will be your room for the time being," he said, pushing open the door they stood before with one splayed hand.

Sure enough, Ryan's trunk was already waiting for them, neatly set down at the foot of the bed. The room was sparsely decorated otherwise, but Ryan did not have much of a chance to look around before Jon said, "Would you like to see the rest of the floor?" and Ryan had no choice but to follow him away.

Whatever misgivings he’d had about not being able to take a look around his new quarters, however, were erased when Jon stopped a couple of doors down and said, with a smile, “This is our library.”

Ryan had an inkling he might look a little ridiculous, eyes lighting up the way they always did when someone mentioned books, but he still could not help leaning forwards as Jon pushed open the door.

It wasn’t very large; certainly not stacks of books all over the floor and rising as high as the ceiling like the library of Ryan’s dreams. But it was without a doubt a library, and Ryan turned to give Jon a smile before he could stop himself. Jon’s breath hitched a little, but then he smiled back and extended a hand into the room.

“After you,” he said.

Ryan wasted precious seconds shooting him an incredulous look. But Jon’s smile didn’t waver, and so he inched into the room, eyes without a doubt indecently wide, and looked around. The shelves were decently full, certainly, and although titles such as _Sporting Anecdotes_ and _On the Economy of Machinery and Manufactures_ were not ones Ryan would reach for first, he did spot one or two he would have liked to pick up and leaf through.

There was also a large bay window with a seat installed beneath it, and Ryan could not resist sneaking over for a quick look. As it turned out, there was little to see. The twilight outside allowed a limited view of the yard behind the house and the fields that it transitioned into, and although Ryan knew that the closest village was only a short ride away, the world was nevertheless dark and silent, in a way Swanns had never been. Even in the middle of the night, with most of its occupants asleep, the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the sea had given off enough light to allow a lost straggler to find his way.

Out here, there was nothing but darkness. A person might be the last individual left alive in the world, Ryan thought, and never even notice.

He shuddered at the thought, and then startled quite badly when Jon’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“Come,” he said, with a trace of concern in those warm eyes of his. “There is some more you ought to see, still.”

Ryan smiled weakly and drew away from the window. “Lead the way,” he said.

Jon held the door for him und closed it carefully once Ryan had slipped through. “You are welcome to look through our books anytime you like,” he said. “The library was our mother’s, and she was very adamant about instilling a sense of literacy in each of us. In this house, no one will ever scold you for picking up a book.”

Ryan, who had had very different experiences in the past, couldn’t help but smile at that. “She sounds lovely,” he said.

“Yes,” Jon said. “She was.” His expression didn’t turn dark, exactly, but the friendly smile slipped from his lips and was replaced by something wistful and not-quite-sad. Ryan, who had been too young to be much affected by his mother’s death, watched in fascination. After only a moment, however, Jon’s face brightened once again. “She was lovely,” he said, “and I shall meet her again one day, but she would not want your first impression of Cavelley to be so melancholy. In fact, I believe she would be appalled at my poor manners. Would you like a refreshment, or perhaps to see the rest of the house?”

“Perhaps some tea?” Ryan asked. Now that the conversation had returned to safer topics, his dust-aggravated throat was once again making itself known.

Jon nodded. “I do believe it is almost time for dinner, so that would work out quite well.” He moved his arm as if to offer it to Ryan, then hesitated and merely indicated the hallway instead. “After you, Mr. Ross.”

Ryan took the lead hesitantly, his steps slow until he felt Jon move up close behind him. When they had once again reached the staircase landing, Jon went ahead downstairs, claiming that the other side of the house was unused and nothing that couldn’t wait until another time. Instead, he led Ryan along another corridor and down a couple of steps, ducking through a doorway into a spacious, well-maintained kitchen. There was a large worktable in the middle of the room, lined by two benches, and a stove manned by a woman in the rough clothes of a servant. She wasn’t a large woman by any stretch of the imagination, but also far from diminutive; a little shorter than Ryan and slender, but muscular, with the worn skin of a woman who worked for a living. She didn’t smile at them, exactly, but her features softened when she looked at Jon. Then her gaze flickered over to Ryan, and Ryan was treated to a healthy dose of the skepticism he had originally been expecting from Jon upon his arrival.

Jon’s smile didn’t dim. “Cook,” he said, touching the woman lightly on the arm, “this is Ryan.”

“Good evening, ma’am,” Ryan said awkwardly, receiving only a blank nod in return.

“Please see to it that Ryan is provided with whatever he needs during his stay,” Jon said to her. Then he whisked Ryan away before any more words could be spoken; which was partly a relief and partly a shame, because Ryan was itching to ask what Jon meant by Ryan’s ‘stay.’ Was he not intended to spend his time here after all? Was Jon perhaps expecting to declare him unsuitable and send him home?

He didn’t have a chance to ask, however, even if he might have dared, because Jon was quick to usher him back into the parlor where they had started their tour. He lit the candles on the dining table while Ryan stood awkwardly by the door, and then pulled out a chair for Ryan expectantly.

“I know you must be tired,” he said. “But won’t you join me for dinner?”

Ryan nodded slowly, even though he would have much preferred to withdraw to the library with a drink and one of his books. He wasn’t very hungry, stomach still in knots from the excitement of the past week, but he supposed he had to keep his strength up somehow. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

The smile that he earned from Jon in return was almost worth it, however.

  

  
 

 

“Father quite enjoys the hunt,” Jon said, setting down his teacup for the final time. “He originally intended to return this past weekend, but perhaps he found a good reason to stay.” His lips drew ever so slightly together. “It has happened before.”

It wasn’t as though Ryan had any familiarity with the circumstances, and it wasn’t his place to judge, so he offered a neutral smile in return.

“He was planning to be here upon your arrival, I can assure you,” Jon went on. “There is without a doubt a perfectly good reason for his delay.”

Ryan smiled again, shrugged one shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said. “I understand.”

But Jon shook his head. “It’s hardly fair to you,” he said. “To ask you here to become acquainted with your fiancé and his family, and for my father to then not be here. It _is_ quite important that the pair of you get along well, after all.”

Ryan smiled again, a little helplessly, and Jon’s expression quickly grew sheepish.

“I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t be overwhelming you with this on your first night here.” He smiled, a reassuring expression that, surprisingly, did help to settle the nervous churning in Ryan’s stomach a little. “Just know that Father will return shortly to meet you, and once he has, the wedding will take place without delay.”

Ryan set his teacup down very carefully. “You are certain then?” he asked. “That the wedding will take place?” It usually did, once the negotiations had come to this stage, unless either party decided they had been misled. But, naturally, nothing was ever certain until the rings and vows had been exchanged.

“There are some formalities to consider yet, naturally,” Jon said, face easy and open. The corners of his mouth curved gently upwards. “But given the circumstances, I really don’t see why it shouldn’t.”

“Oh,” Ryan said quietly. His stomach had given a sharp jolt at the words, enough so that his fork clattered against the side of his plate when he went to pick it up.

He was to be married. To Jon. He was to be married to Jon, and even though he hardly knew the man, something warm and pleased was unfurling in his belly.

After a moment of silence, Jon cleared his throat. “Shall we eat?” he asked. He rang a little bell, and smiled at Ryan, and it wasn’t very long until Cook emerged from the kitchen with two bowls and a small pot on a tray. She served Ryan first, although he was very aware of her measuring eyes on him, and then turned to Jon. There wasn’t a doubt that she gave him the bigger portion, but Ryan didn’t mind, running his spoon through his bowl instead in an attempt to develop an idea of what the texture might be without appearing rude.

“I’m afraid it won’t be quite what you’re used to,” Jon said, with an apologetic dip of his head.

It wasn’t. The soup was thick and tasted of chestnuts, not at all like the fish soup Ryan had been raised on. It was still good, but like most of the aspects of this household, it let him keenly aware of how far he was from home.

“It’s fine,” he said, nevertheless, and took another spoonful.

Across the room, the cook set down her pot with an overly loud clang, startling Ryan quite badly. In profile, he could see her frown and thought that perhaps she had misinterpreted his words to mean that he thought it was not well done, but the woman disappeared without an explanation, or even giving Ryan the chance to assure her that he really didn’t think it bad.

When he turned to Jon for help, the man was shaking his head fondly.

“She’s a little gruff, I’ll admit,” he said with a grin. “But she’s a lovely woman, and quite the cook.”

Ryan nodded dutifully, as he could attest to none of these things. He merely hoped he wouldn’t be forced to spend much time alone with her – he did not think he had the stomach for her blatant disapproval.

It was quiet for a while, the only sounds the clink of their cutlery against the porcelain, until Jon cleared his throat. “How is it that your father came into contact with mine?” he asked hesitantly. “Father never said.”

Strangely enough, it made Ryan feel a little better, knowing that Jon was just as ill-informed as he was. “Mutual business contacts, I believe?” he said, smiling a little. “My father once did trading with Lord Smith, who knows Wentz, if I remember correctly.”

“Ah, yes. Wentz.” Jon pulled a face, then laughed at himself. “A colorful character, no doubt about that. But loyal, too, or my father would have turned him away at the door.”

“That’s good,” Ryan said. “That your father has such strong feelings on the matter.”

“He takes his duties very seriously,” Jon said earnestly. Then he slapped his flattened palm down on his thigh and said, “But now let’s talk of other matters. Do you have any questions about anything?”

Ryan set his spoon down carefully. “I do, but it does concern – the marriage,” he said quietly.

When Jon motioned for him to carry on, looking a tiny bit sorry, he said, “Is there a date? For the ceremony, I mean? My father didn’t say.”

Jon nodded slowly. “Well,” he said. “Father is currently away, as you know. He had intended to return before your arrival, to have time to properly meet you before you become part of the family, but he must have been delayed. It’s not terribly unusual. However, it does mean that the ceremony will be postponed until he does arrive, whenever that may be.”

Ryan nodded slowly. If Jon was anything like his father, then Ryan liking him wouldn’t pose much of a problem. It was, he thought a little glumly, dragging his spoon through his soup, Jon’s father liking Ryan that would be a challenge.

 

Jon walked him to his room after dinner, his elbow held out for Ryan to walk on, the other illuminating the ground before them with a lantern a little larger than the one Ryan himself held. Ryan, who was only half listening, thought he was chattering on about whatever dishes Cook did best. Ryan smiled politely, and nodded occasionally, with his mind drifting far, far away.

He could see himself doing this, doing this for years to come, having a comfortable dinner with Jon and then retiring with him back to their rooms. And Jon had said he felt the same, which had unleashed a small flurry of pleased butterflies somewhere in Ryan’s abdomen. Perhaps it wasn’t the star-crossed romance Ryan had allowed himself to dream of in his more indulgent moments, but, he thought, as he tightened his hold on Jon’s elbow and Jon turned his head to smile at him, it would certainly be an acceptable reality to live in.

“Here we are,” Jon said, elegantly pulling Ryan to a stop in front of what was, indeed, Ryan’s bedroom door.

Ryan disentangled himself as gracefully as he could and slipped inside when Jon opened the door for him, turning to face him through the gap.

“Sleep well, Ryan,” Jon said softly.

“Goodnight,” Ryan returned, finding it hard to hold Jon’s gaze, and closed the door between them.

The lamp’s light was not strong enough to give Ryan a much clearer idea of what the room looked like than he’d had before, but it did allow him to move over to the wardrobe and the chair set up next to it without stumbling or feeling his way around like a blindfolded child playing a game. With the smell of paraffin burning sharply in his nose, he set the lamp down on the chair’s seat, and then took his time unbuttoning his waistcoat, using the opportunity to look around his new abode. The room was finely, but scarcely, decorated, with dark chestnut furniture and recently washed drapes and little else. It was obviously intended for a guest. Ryan assumed he would be moved into Jon’s room when the time came, but perhaps Jon would prefer to have his area his own. Ryan had never moved in circles where there would have been that much room to spare, but Cavelley had certainly rooms enough, and he could appreciate the need to have a little space to one’s self. He would have perhaps liked a small shelf for his books, or a desk to write at, but no matter. He would no doubt be able to find a little space to spare in a house like this.

Someone had extracted his clothes from his trunk and hung them neatly in the wardrobe, so Ryan pulled his chilled nightshirt over his bare torso before he slipped out of his pants, folding them over the chair’s back, away from the lamp. The bare floorboards were cold against his feet.

Across the room, the bed had been turned down for him; a kind gesture that hardly made Ryan feel any more at home. The sheets were still cold when he slipped between them, and the ceiling still unfamiliar and bland. The bed creaked when he settled down, and again when he rose up onto one elbow to blow out the lamp, and then once more when he lay down flat on his back and squeezed his eyes shut so firmly it hurt.

 

He did not, however, fall asleep. He was certainly tired enough to, although it was a little before his usual bedtime, but circumstances seemed to conspire to keep him from his rest. At first it was the cold bedclothes, too chilly to allow for sleep. Once they had warmed to his body’s temperature, he discovered that the house creaked in unexpected, unfamiliar ways, making Ryan flinch time and time again. It seemed almost deliberate, the way he would close his eyes and slowly unwind his tense shoulders only for some beam somewhere to creak and groan once more, startling him back into wakefulness. It was hardly the rest he, after such a taxing journey, had hoped for.

Inevitably, with his mind left with no stimulation but his own tumultuous thoughts, he began wondering about Jon again. About what Jon might be like, as a husband. He’d received vague instructions on how to approach marriage bed with a woman, but no one had ever bothered to address the same issue with a man. ‘Your husband will know what to do,' he’d been told whenever he asked, which was certainly not very reassuring. What if his eventual spouse had been told the same thing? What if he only _thought_ he knew what to do? As acceptable as unions between two men were, he still knew they were not what nature had intended, and he’d overheard horrible, horrible whispers about how painful the experience could be. One of his schoolmates had told stories of his second-born brother and how he, after his wedding night, had spent several weeks hardly able to walk, and not at all in the way the sailors sometimes liked to talk about with their leers and waggling brows.

Jon didn’t seem like the kind of man who would continue with the act if Ryan was in obvious discomfort, but Ryan had only known him for a day, and Ryan knew that very few husbands – anyone, really, but husbands in particular – liked to have their prowess called into question.

There was also the possibility, he knew, that Jon might like Ryan to be the one… _taking charge_ , but Ryan could not even contemplate that option without flushing. Hopefully, if that was the way Jon’s proclivities lay, he would allow Ryan some time to get used to the idea, because if he didn’t, he would find Ryan’s performance to be subpar indeed.

So Ryan was, of course, going to do his best to bear the act stoically, but he couldn’t help but hope.

 

With such tumultuous thoughts, it was a wonder Ryan managed to find sleep at all, but when he blinked open his eyes, it was to find the room light and himself, if not well-rested, then at least refreshed. Once he had gathered his wits about him, he pushed the covers aside and slipped out of bed. The floorboards were chilly still, making him wince, but the idea of finally seeing what his new home might look like in the less unsettling daylight was enough to keep him on his path.

When he peeked out the window, he found that the sun was quite a bit lower than it usually was when he rose, and that it was merely the way the light traveled into the room, so different from his bedroom in his father’s house, that had awoken him so early. There were a handful of deer feeding in the meadow beyond the hedge marking the property line, a sight that was probably ordinary here but still made Ryan stare. Everything was so different here, so strange, that Ryan was sorely tempted to get back into bed and pull the covers tightly over his head.

Still, he was awake now, and perhaps it would be a wise choice to avoid giving the impression of a lazy lay-about to his new husband, so he drew back from the sight laid out before him and made his way over to the half-empty closet.

His clothes were stiff on their hangers but appeared to otherwise have survived the journey well. He ran his hands over the elaborate patterns and smiled to himself. He’d packed the clothes he liked the best, the ones that weren’t fashionable but that he loved nonetheless; his feathered hat and his patterned vests and the shirts with the embroidered cuffs. He would most likely have brought his body weight in books, but his father had forbidden it. Ryan was to make a favorable impression on the Walkers, he’d said, and spending the days he could be growing familiar with his future husband buried in a book would not qualify. Ryan’s clothes he had shaken his head at but tolerated, and so Ryan drew on a pair of pinstriped trousers underneath his nightshirt and headed over to the bowl and jug set out on the dresser.

The cold water was quite a shock on his sleep-warmed skin, but it worked wonders on his overwrought and muggy brain. While he stripped down to the waist and swiped at his skin with the cloth laid out for him, he firmly told himself to let his worried musings be. Jon seemed to be a decent man at the very least, kind and unlikely to take advantage of Ryan in his vulnerable position as their houseguest. It wouldn’t do for Ryan to dwell on what might have been, or what still lay in the future. ‘Head-in-the-clouds,’ his schoolteacher had liked to call him, and as much as Ryan disliked the nickname and its subsequent adoption by the other boys, he couldn’t deny that the man had had a point.

Feeling a scowl begin to form at the memories, Ryan reached for the laid-out towel and roughly scrubbed himself dry. He combed out his hair a lot more thoroughly than he usually would have and made sure his clothes were meticulously straightened before he headed for the door. His first impression, travel-weary and ruffled, had already been made, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still try to sway Jon’s opinion of him in his favor.

 

Assuming he ever managed to find him, of course, because the hallways outside of his room were deserted. To Ryan’s eternal relief, however, the corridors were a lot less intimidating in the daylight that fell through the sparse windows. Now grey rather than black, they had lost some of their unsettling air and now seemed bleak and loveless, but at least not frightening. It certainly wasn’t a challenge to gently sneak along the carpet, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for his fiancé.

When he had made it all the way to the stairs leading down into the entrance hall, he still had not encountered anyone. He laid his hand on the bannister and peered carefully over it, but it, too, was deserted. No particular wonder, perhaps, given that the estate was certainly large enough for four times the occupants it currently had, but also a little of a welcome respite. The longer he went without running into anyone, the more time he had to acquaint himself with these oppressing walls without having to fake joviality and cheer.

He descended the staircase, intent on taking a closer look at the tapestry he had noticed the previous evening, and caught sight of the corridor leading down to the kitchen instead. His insides were certainly pleased at the discovery. But breakfast wouldn’t be for a few more hours, still, so Ryan pressed a hand to his awakening stomach and looked around. He wondered idly if Jon was an early riser like Ryan was, and if so, if he would be loud and cheerful or more inclined to sit and drift away with his thoughts.

The former appeared to be the truth, because a moment later, Jon appeared on the landing, still bearing the marks of sleep but fully dressed and beaming down at him. “Ryan,” he called upon his descent. "I was wondering where you'd gone."

His eyes itched and burned from far too little sleep, but he nevertheless managed a smile. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Jon returned, smiling at him with sleep-narrow eyes. “I hope you slept well?”

Ryan nodded automatically, although his back still pained him and his eyes ached with the need to close again. “Thank you,” he said. He cleared his throat. “And you?”

Jon’s smile widened. “Quite well,” he said. “But I did grow up in this house, and am used to all its little creaks and groans. I know it can be temperamental sometimes, so I’m glad to hear it did not keep you from your rest.”

“Not at all,” Ryan lied. He was saved from further untruths by the arrival of Hall, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, coming up the stairs leading down to the servants’ quarters. He was dressed for the road, boots laced up tight, and the sight of him made Ryan’s heart unexpectedly clench. Hall was the only connection Ryan still had to home. Once the man had left, everything Ryan had ever known would be gone, and he would be all alone.

Jon followed his gaze and smiled. “Oh, are you off?’

“Yes, sir,” Hall said. “It’s a bit of a ways, so I’d best get started early.”

“Good luck on your return journey, then,” Jon said, smiling at the man, and Hall nodded, but he didn’t look away from Ryan.

Biting his lip uncertainly, Ryan gazed back while the silence dragged out around them. “Thank you for waiting,” he finally found himself saying, head tilted back so he could look the man in the eye.

"I would not have left without saying goodbye," Hall assured him. He twisted his hat in his hands, not in a nervous gesture, but rather the way he did when he wasn't quite sure what he ought to say.

Ryan, for his part, did not know what to say either, so he nodded stiffly and returned a polite, "Thank you."

Hall nodded. "Best wishes for your marriage," he said.

Ryan nodded as well, swallowed. "Safe travels," he said.

Hall’s lips quirked at that. “Good luck, Mr. Ross,” he said, with a sympathetic little smile.

Ryan suspected the one he offered in return looked a little sickly, because Hall’s expression softened, and his hand settled on Ryan’s shoulder with a quick squeeze in a way it hadn’t since Ryan was a child. Then he drew away and disappeared, his heavy boots thudding solidly across the foyer, and Ryan was left alone with this stranger he was going to marry.

Jon had kindly withdrawn without Ryan noticing, inspecting something or other at the bottom corner of a wall drape, but now he returned, offering Ryan a smile and his arm. “Would you like to go for a walk? See the grounds?” he asked. “I realized upon waking that you haven’t, yet, and it should be a nice way to spend the morning.”

His smile was warm and encouraging, and Ryan could feel his cheeks heat as he slipped his fingers into the crook of Jon’s arm.

The sleeve of Jon’s jacket was just a little cool against his skin, smooth and soft, the stitching invisible but noticeable under his fingertips. It was finer and probably a lot more expensive than Ryan’s own coat, but it suited Jon well.

When he looked up, Jon was watching him, smiling a little, and the blush covering Ryan’s cheeks spread across his whole face and all the way down to his neck. Jon’s smile bloomed in response, and he said, “Shall we?”

Ryan, still extraordinarily flustered, nodded. His stomach ached in protest, but Ryan told it sternly to quiet down, and let Jon lead the both of them across the hall and out the door.

They caught a last glimpse of Hall’s carriage as it rattled down the lane. The groundskeeper, Ophis, was watching it go, no doubt having come out to help Hall strap the horses in, but he set back into motion the moment it was out of sight, tipping his hat at Jon and Ryan as he walked past.

Jon grinned and waved but didn’t halt, tugging Ryan along with him down a path amidst the last of the summer green. Ryan grew cold almost immediately, as the sun was shining brightly on the horizon but was still too weak to be of much use in that regard. Ryan didn’t say anything about it, listening attentively instead as Jon pointed out the berry hedges and the small orchard that grew along the road. Beyond them, he indicated a chicken coop and a cow or two, enough to keep the family in milk and butter and perhaps trade in town for fabric or some buttons. Ryan couldn’t imagine that kind of transaction taking place without any money at all, but Jon didn’t even hesitate in his explanations, so perhaps that was indeed the norm this far inland.

After another distance, they could see the roof of a barn peeking out through the trees, and Jon enthusiastically explained about their horses, how he had grown up riding through the wide open pastures of Cavelley Estate and quite enjoyed it. “It must be very different from your hometown,” he said after a while, almost apologetically. “I haven’t been to the coast in some time, and even then, we were in a small seaside-village, not such an active seaport.”

“It’s different,” Ryan agreed, and when Jon’s face fell, he allowed himself a little smile. “It’s not a bad thing” he said, and in a sudden fit of daring, squeezed Jon’s arm through his jacket.

A sudden, bright smile bloomed across Jon’s face at that. “Perhaps you and Father could go out to the coast sometime,” he said. “He has not gone recently, but I do believe he enjoyed it the last time he went.” He bit his lip. “Of course he was with Mother then, but I’m sure he’d enjoy showing you around nonetheless.”

Ryan nodded quickly, looking down at his feet. _Their_ feet, moving side by side. The grass was wet from dew, clinging to their boots as they walked.

“And would you be joining us?” he asked, hoping to sound interested rather than needy. After so many mentions of the elder Mr. Walker and no sign of him, he’d begun to form a rather ominous presence in Ryan’s mind.

He didn’t look up when Jon sighed quietly, and so felt, rather than saw, Jon turn to him. “I’m a very busy man, Ryan,” he said, and Ryan pulled up his shoulders, trying not to feel like a chastened child.

“I’d love to join you, of course, but the business is demanding and I may not have a choice.”

Ryan nodded quickly, which Jon responded to by pulling him around to face him, and then tilting his face up.

“You mustn’t be afraid of Father, Ryan,” he said. “He’s a good man, and he won’t treat you poorly, even when I’m not around. He’s just as glad to see you become part of the family as I am.”

_He’s never even met me_ , Ryan wanted to point out, but instead he bit his tongue and nodded, which made Jon sigh again. Ryan’s shoulders hunched up in anticipation, but Jon refrained from scolding him. Instead, looking a little sad, he reached out to brush a lock of hair behind Ryan’s ear.

“My father will grow to love you,” he said softly. “You mark my words.”

Ryan kept his head down, and after a moment, Jon cleared his throat. When Ryan looked up, Jon was looking away.

“In any case, I’m quite fond of horses,” he said. “Perhaps, if you’re so inclined, we could go on a ride sometime.”

Ryan bit his lip. He hadn’t learned to ride, never had cause or opportunity. He’d always thought he would be married to another city dweller, the daughter of a successful merchant or a trader’s son with enough nieces and nephews to secure the continuation of his line. For a while, he’d even considered how life might be like wed to a sailor, a tough man or woman who cussed and cursed and went away for months at a time.

He’d certainly never pictured himself out in the country, with berry bushes and orchards, far away from the seagulls and the smell of gutted fish.

He wasn’t sure what expression might be forming on his face, but it certainly made Jon laugh, misinterpreting it. “You don’t have to ride if you’d rather not,” he said. “Perhaps I could find a bicycle for you,” he added. “When I’m in the city next. They’re all the rage with the city folk at the moment.” He leaned his head to the side. “Do you think you might like that?”

Ryan, who wasn’t used to not being able to walk everywhere he might need to go, bit his lip. He doubted that he would cut a particularly dashing figure with a rattling metal contraption beneath him, but Jon’s expression was soft and a little hopeful, so he smiled. “Only if you purchase one for yourself, as well,” he said. “It would be most cruel to force me to make a fool out of myself all on my own.”

“Indeed it would,” Jon said, grinning, and offered Ryan his arm again. “Shall we head inside for breakfast? It’s getting to be that time, I think.”

 

‘Breakfast,’ it seemed, was some secret code word Ryan was not yet aware of, because while there was plenty of food on the table, the conversation was entirely dominated by talk of the wedding. Ryan had not even cut into his roll when Jon already inquired about his wardrobe, whether he had been outfitted for a suit and if so, if Jon might see it so the family tailor could create a coordinated one.

Ryan found himself gaping helplessly for a moment before he dropped his gaze and returned his attention to his food. He had his best clothes with him, of course, but after seeing the size of the estate, he was reasonably sure that they could not be fine enough for the Walkers. Sure, perhaps they were in slight financial difficulties of their own, but few good families Ryan knew of would choose to showcase their frugality on their youngest child’s wedding day. So he shook his head and said, eyes lowered, “Only my church clothes, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright,” Jon said, and when Ryan glanced up at him, he truly did not appear to be particularly bothered. “We’ll take you to our tailor in town, he’s outfitted both my brothers for their wedding. He’ll do a fine job.”

Ryan nodded, for it wasn’t as though he could offer any sort of opinion on the matter, and then suddenly found himself alone when the groundskeeper, Ophis, entered with a letter in his hand. Jon muttered a quiet “Excuse me,” and left the room to read it. Ryan caught Ophis giving him a curious look and quickly dropped his head, keeping himself entirely preoccupied with his jam and tea until he heard the quiet footsteps and the sound of the door latch clicking shut that signaled the man’s departure.

 

Jon didn’t return. In response, Ryan found himself glancing at the door more and more frequently, even more so after he had eaten his fill and had nothing to do but pick at the crumbs on his plate and wait for the tea to grow steadily colder. It was either the longest letter in the world Jon had received, or something else had occurred, and eventually Ryan pushed back from the table and went looking.

As luck would have it, he had just barely closed the parlor door behind him when he caught sight of Jon heading down the corridor towards him.

“Ryan,” he said, a tentative smile breaking free. He fidgeted with the paper in his hands, smoothing out the wrinkles his own grip had caused, before he suddenly straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid I’ve been called back to the city urgently,” he said. “I will have to ride out shortly.”

Ryan wasn’t sure how much his face betrayed, but it was enough for Jon to reach out and lightly brush his fingers against his sleeve. “I won’t be gone long,” he said quietly. “Only a couple of days, and I’ll hasten to return as quickly as possible. I’ll be back in time for the wedding, of course,” he said, laughing at himself.

“Of course,” Ryan said, trying on a smile.

Jon nodded earnestly. “Cook and Ophis will remain here, naturally – they will gladly tend to your needs. Please, do not hesitate to ask them for anything.”

“Thank you,” Ryan said. He smiled again, more earnestly this time, and was rewarded with a smile of Jon’s own.

“Things will work out just fine,” he said, hands moving at his side like he might like to reach out and touch Ryan’s elbow once more. “I promise.”

 

Ryan was a little hesitant about accompanying Jon outside to see him off, but Jon certainly looked pleased to see him, and waved through the window when the hired coachman spurred the horses into motion.

Ryan ducked his head in acknowledgement, feeling foolishly as though he were being left behind on some grand adventure. He forced a smile, however, and waited on the steps as the carriage rattled away, vaguely thinking that he could catch glimpses of Jon craning his head around to look back.

Then he allowed himself one single sigh before he turned on the steps and headed back inside, arms wrapped around his torso to stave off the chill.

Well. If Jon was going to have stories worth telling about, then who was to say that Ryan couldn’t, also? He could – he could explore the house instead, and maybe he’d find some pixies hiding in the attic, or a shameful brother or sister or grandmother hidden away in a room somewhere, or maybe even a ghost.

Upon further contemplation, Ryan decided he would rather not discover a ghost at Cavelley, but that did not deter him from stomping determinedly up the stairs and turning, at the landing, towards the west wing rather than the one containing their bedrooms.

He had not walked a dozen feet before he had to concede that yes, this area was clearly no longer in use. The portraits here were even older, postures even stiffer. Cobwebs covered the disused lamps lining the hallway, hastily cleared away but still clearly there. The windows, stained and matted, let in only a modicum of light.

There were more rooms, as well, but the ones that weren’t locked were covered in dust sheets, having obviously been out of use for some time. One of them looked to have been a woman’s, once, with flowers embroidered on the cushion coverings and a lone, silky glove lying abandoned on the window seat, hidden from view by the drapes and padding. Ryan ran the pad of his thumb over the buttons sewn painstakingly along the wrist before tucking it back out of sight.

A covered portrait drew his attention next, and when he moved the sheet aside, he found a painting of what looked to be a relative of Jon's standing behind a seated woman, one severe hand resting on her shoulder. Three boys stood around them; the oldest an adolescent, the youngest holding onto his mother’s skirts to keep steady. It wasn’t hard to guess who it might be, but it was the woman who drew Ryan’s attention; she had long tresses of dark hair that not even a painter’s couth hand could entirely tame, and even in the stillness of the painting, her eyes were warm.

Eyes like Jon, sweet and attentive, and for one of not very many times in his life, Ryan found himself actually grateful to his father. Here, at least, he seemed to have had Ryan’s best interest at heart, or at the very least chosen a suitable match for himself that turned out well for Ryan also. Jon was a good man; the kind of man who inspired trust and honesty in a spouse. In turn, it wasn’t hard for Ryan to imagine himself as an obedient husband to Jon; he was kind and warm, with good manners and a strong sense of duty. One could never know for sure, of course, but Ryan didn’t think he’d turn out violent or demanding after the wedding.

Still, Ryan had spent enough time with his father and the reputable façade he put on when dealing with strangers to know that appearances could be deceiving. So, resolutely, he flicked the fabric over the painting once again and turned his back on it, dedicating his time and attention to finding his way back into known realms instead.

Along with the message that had carried Jon away, there had apparently arrived a letter from Ryan’s father as well – one that his father must have sent the very moment Ryan departed. Puzzled, Ryan tore it open. The missive was brief, asking only if he was being treated well and reminding him to disclose the date of their wedding as soon as he learned it. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, as his father was a man of deeds rather than words, and Ryan would undoubtedly been more unsettled than pleased had his father penned him a long, sentimental note. Nevertheless, he found himself reading the message several times over and wishing his relationship with his father were a little more fond.

Suddenly aching for a little company, he set his writing down and slipped out the door. Ophis and Cook, at least, were here with him. They might not be very pleased to see him, but surely they would tolerate his presence for a little while. Ophis, when he had brought Ryan his letter, had mentioned briefly heading into town, so who knew where he might be at the moment. That left Cook, a thought that made Ryan shudder briefly, but the need for a kind smile or even a nod of acknowledgement drove him downstairs regardless.

He found the kitchen with little trouble, and only hesitated when he caught sight of the woman at the table bent over a bowl of potatoes, the vegetables glistening with moisture. Her knife carved steadily below the skin, revealing the golden meat underneath, peels dropping skillfully in the metal pail resting between her knees. Ryan had seen his own – his father’s own – housekeeper do the same thing dozens of times, but had never been allowed to try his own hand at it, for fear that he be clumsy and careless and hurt himself. He’d still watched her, chin propped up on the table, and she’d made the whole thing look so effortless, chatting away as she worked, peels slipping through her fingers and into the bucket waiting below.

Shaking off a sudden attack of homesickness, Ryan looked away. There was a pot bubbling away on the stove, smelling sharply of onions, and when he turned back to the table, it was to find the woman staring back at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

She sounded like there wasn’t anything in the world she’d like to do less, and so Ryan quickly shook his head.

“That’s alright,” he said. “I’m just – having a look around.”

Cook looked distinctly unpleased. “You’re free to do whatever you like, of course,” she said. “As long as you stay out from under foot. This is hardly the place to dawdle around.”

“Of course,” Ryan assured her, feeling a damning flush rise in his cheeks, and he lingered in the doorway for a moment, torn if the best course of action was to assert his dominance and stay, or to flee the scene as quickly as possible.

He startled when Cook rose, bench screeching across the ground, and before he knew it, he found himself in her place, armed with knife and bucket because, as she said, “If you’re going to stay and gawk, you might as well make yourself useful.”

She pushed the bowl of unpeeled potatoes helpfully near his elbow, and then she was gone, leaving Ryan to peer down at his suddenly acquired task with his eyes wide with surprise.

He hesitantly dragged the knife across the potato, and then again, quickly discovering that he would need quite a bit more pressure to achieve the desired goal. Just _how much_ pressure continued to be a mystery, however, and he nearly dropped the slick tuber a moment later when he pressed and almost managed to slice clear across and all the way into his thumb. The digit was unhurt, thankfully, but he sucked on it for a moment regardless, thinking less than pleased thoughts about how Mrs. Dowerter had always made this look so _easy._

Cook, of course, eagle-eyed Cook, caught his delay immediately. “What is it?” she asked. “Is the task not up to your delicate sensibilities?”

“Oh no,” Ryan said quickly, coloring regardless. “It’s just – I’m. I’m afraid I’m not terribly proficient.”

Cook laughed a little at that, half dry chuckle, half un-dignified snort. She turned away, but Ryan still caught her reply: “Yes, God forbid the good sir marry anyone useful.”

If Ryan were someone, anyone else, perhaps he would have thought up a clever retort to that. He liked to imagine that Jon, at least, would have come to his future husband’s aid with a biting comment. But there wasn’t anyone to come to his rescue, only Ryan, who had had the scornful wit of his youth mercilessly beaten down whenever it made an appearance. His naturally sharp tongue had been whittled down to a shyness that one could pass off as a young gentleman’s reservation, and so there was nothing for him to do but to hide his flushing cheeks behind his hair and pretend not to have heard.

Unfortunately, however, the way he fulfilled the task she had set for him was hardly going to prove her wrong. The going was slow, unused as he was to handling a cutting knife, and he often cut off far too much of the potato’s meat along with its skin. At least he managed not to slice his own fingers open as he went, but he still felt woefully incompetent and inadequate, and would have done anything to find himself upstairs in his room with a book instead. When Cook came over after a little while to inspect his clumsy progress, her noise of disgust rattled Ryan to the bone.

“Hand those over,” she said, pulling the bowl away from him. Instead, she nodded at the bucket at his feet. “You can take that out to the pigs,”

“The pigs?” Ryan echoed.

“Pigs.” Her eyebrows climbed all the way to the edge of the cap holding back her hair. “I’m sure you’ve seen some before?”

Damning heat crept over Ryan’s cheeks. “I don’t know where they are,” he returned, as sharply as he dared.

She didn’t look pleased with his tone, but she backed away from the table with a sigh and pointed him out the back door. “The shed on the left,” she said, indicating a low building peeking out over a roughly trimmed boxwood hedge. “Come back to the house if you get lost.”

Ryan looked away to keep her from seeing how much her words stung. Instead, he picked up the bucket of peels and stalked out the door as rudely as propriety allowed him, tossing a ‘yes, ma’am,’ over his shoulder as he went.

The path over to the shed wasn’t hard to spot, and while Ryan was sure Cook was watching him from the kitchen windows, he could not help muttering a few choice words he had picked up at the harbor as he walked. It wasn’t his fault no one had ever deemed it necessary to teach him these things. He had always been groomed for companionship, everyone aware that he would not be able to support a spouse and possibly children of his own on his family’s meager earnings. Ryan was a good companion. A little awkward, perhaps, a little shy, but he could articulate his thoughts, read and write, was educated himself in music, and kept up-to-date with whatever was happening in the world most of the time. He’d been told several times, by many people, that he had a voice suited for reading aloud, calm and sweet. He knew the current fashions, even if he tended not to follow them, and while large gatherings of strangers did not always inspire the best in him, he had never been condemned for not keeping up with the times.

How could he have known that he would one day be asked to prepare meals like a kitchen maid, under the watchful eye of an old crone of a house cook?

And out in the country, in absolute isolation, no less. He knew rationally that Cavelley was a lot closer to the city than Swanns was, but it was hard to keep geography in mind when Swanns had been so alive with sights and smells and sounds and Cavelley seemed to thrive on loneliness. It was hard at the moment not to think of himself as the last decent human being left alive.

At this point in his contemplations, his nose had begun to run from the chill in the air, so he unearthed his handkerchief and dabbed at his face. The bucket wasn’t particularly heavy, but large enough that it banged awkwardly against his knee with every step. He’d surely have bruises there come morning.

By the time he reached his destination, he felt as though the scowl might have permanently disfigured his face. There was a small door, latched shut, which he drew open, knocking the pail into the doorframe as he did so.

The stench was breathtaking, and he recoiled for a moment, but then he imagined returning to Cook with _this_ as the reason behind his failed task, and he pushed on regardless.

With the door falling shut behind him, it was warm inside, a kind of damp heat created by many large bodies pressed close together. Once his eyes had adjusted, he could see that he was in a walkway, penned in on both sides by wooden boards. On one side, hay and feed awaited distribution. On the other, large, shiny backs moved in an ever-active mass, grunting and groaning at one another, and Ryan took a step back.

There was a gate, about thigh-high, that would allow him to enter the area, with the trough for their food clear on the other side. Of course. At the end of the hut the storage area for the feed ended, and instead there was a small niche with old hay and a couple coiled lengths of rope, none of which looked like it had been in use for some time.

Ryan nudged them around with his foot for as long as he could stand, then he took a deep breath and marched his way into the holding area. The pigs didn’t seem to mind his presence. They snuffled over their trough but barely acknowledged him when he latched the gate behind him or later sidestepped carefully around them. There were four of them, each one at least as heavy as Ryan, with sharp teeth that he decided there and then that he would stay well clear of.

That particular endeavor turned out to be not entirely without challenges: When he, pressed close to the wall, emptied his bucket into the partially filled trough, they immediately crowded close, their muscular legs and round bellies rubbing against Ryan’s boots before he had the chance to flee.

He pushed out of the chaos as calmly as he could and made certain the gate was firmly shut behind him before he made his exit.

Once out in the open air, breathing freely, he was most reluctant to head back to the kitchen for further chores. Hadn’t he been tortured enough for one day? But a strange sort of duty compelled him, along with perhaps a desire to prove his worth, and so he returned, declaring his mission a success to a disbelieving Cook.

Of course he regretted it later, much later, when he lay in the darkness of his bedroom and prayed for sleep that would not come. He was tired, so tired, his limbs sore from a day of unexpected work, and his eyes burning with the need to close. Still, the ache in his feet and his back kept him from sleep, and he scowled up at the ceiling, cursing Cavelley and Cook and the day his father had ever struck up contact with the Walkers.

 

He did not remain angry for long, however, for the next morning the first thing he laid eyes upon was the slip of paper Jon had handed to Ryan upon his departure, squeezing Ryan’s fingers gently as he drew away. The note contained the address of his city townhouse, and Jon had accompanied it with a request for updates how Ryan was settling in, how he was finding Cavelley, if there was anything he needed or wanted from the city.

That night, by the stuttering light of the gas lamp, Ryan penned out a reply. He thanked Jon for his attentiveness, and his offer, but declined, and wrote a quick sentence about exploring the west wing. He did not mention the incident with Cook. Even if he had not been raised to keep a civil tongue at all times, he was not eager to point out to his husband how much he had struggled with so simple a task. He didn’t want Jon to think he had made a mistake, choosing Ryan. He wanted Jon to smile at him over dinner, proudly introduce him at parties. He wanted Jon’s stomach to swoop in anticipation when he received Ryan’s letter the way Ryan’s did whenever he caught sight of that slip of paper.

He propped up the note against the lamp as he wrote, and kept it there even once his reply was completed, the ink dry, and there was no longer a reason to reference it quite so often. It made him feel a little lighter, that was all. Less alone in this big house, with its unfriendly staff and dark corridors. He knew the words well enough now that the sentences flowed easily together, but he continued to read it over and over, a gentle reminder that despite the unpleasantness of the unfamiliar house, there was something for him to look forward to.

 

> _My dearest Ryan,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. I am very happy to hear that you have enjoyed your stay at Cavelley so far, and hope that you will continue to settle in well._
> 
> _As for your questions – the city is not currently as busy as one might think. There are still many people abroad, of course, but with the season nearly over, most of the ton is returning to their country estates for the winter. And so there is very little to distract me from the tedium of my working day. Some of my schoolmates have settled here as well, and we go out to the clubs at the weekends. Perhaps you would enjoy them. We will have to arrange for you to visit the city some time. It is quite dreadful here at times, but it is very different from Cavelley, and Swanns as well, I’m sure, and truly a sight to behold._
> 
> _Work is indeed keeping me very busy. I have made my clerks quite unhappy pressing them for a date upon which I may depart, but I fear it will be a little while. It does lighten my heart to hear you are well taken care of at the estate, so please reassure me that Cook and Ophis are doing their utmost to keep you happy._
> 
> _In closing, some bad news: Father has finally sent word of his delay; it appears his coachman has broken a leg, and will have to rest for quite some time while it heals. Father prefers to wait for the man to recover rather than send for someone else. I can assure you that he will be quite comfortable at his lodging in Brunswick in the meantime. He does wish to express to you his regret, as his delayed departure means moving the wedding back for a few more weeks. However, he trusts that you understand, and hopes that your stay at Cavelley continue to be a happy one._
> 
> _I will of course keep you informed of any further development._
> 
> _For now, dear Ryan: Do not fret. Please write to me again soon, and do let me know if there is anything you need._
> 
> _With the most cordial greetings,_
> 
> _Jonathan Walker_

 

Ryan carried the letter close for several days. He kept it in his pocket as a reminder that all was not as dreadful as it seemed, even though the news of the delayed wedding had sent a little stab of doubt shooting into his heart. But there was no reason for him to be wary of Jon’s words, so he bowed his head and worked hard to prove himself worthy of such a kind man. He scrubbed his own boots and he washed his own clothes and he let himself be scoffed at because he didn’t know the best techniques for polishing silver, and he kept his head down and did not complain. He couldn’t tell if Cook was a test to suffer through or if she was simply a miserable old biddy, but he refused to give her any reason to complain to Jon about him.

He still took tea; that much tradition Cook seemed willing to uphold, but it was distinctly less enjoyable on one’s own. Ryan found himself perched on one solitary end of the sofa in the evenings, sipping his drink and wondering how to arrange his feet. At his father’s house, Ryan had had to occasionally suffer through the same, but even at the time he had known that whenever his father was incapacitated enough to miss tea, the man was best to be avoided in any case. With his fiancé, Ryan had no such knowledge. He’d only had that single teatime with Jon – would the man prefer quiet contemplation, or lively conversation? Would he want to hear about Ryan’s day, or rather regale tales of his own?

The only information he really had to go on was that first letter Jon had written, and several days later a second, not too long but still inked out as diligently as Ryan could ask. Jon, Ryan was pleased to note, addressed his letters to Ryan differently than he had the ones to Ryan’s father. His personal letters were warmer, sweeter, more intent on learning of Ryan’s thoughts and feelings than the state of the manor.

He’d even taken the time to respond to Ryan’s thoughts on the machine he had read about, in the magazines he had discovered while exploring the house.

Some days earlier, he’d found in Mrs. Walker’s library, near the door, a neat stack of scientific journals. Curiosity had led him to pick them up and leaf through the pages, and intrigue had compelled him to take them over to the window to read. He didn’t understand all the jargon, naturally, but what he did grasp had him folding up his legs and leaning close to the window and its light in concentration.

The article, several months outdated, spoke of a machine that could take photographic images of a person’s bones, nothing but their bare bones, even while they were still alive. Ryan had not yet heard of such a machine actually being used, it not being his usual topic of interest, but it certainly sounded fascinating. Usually he would have sought out Mrs. Dowerter to tell her all about this, as she was known for indulging his fancies, or more rarely his father. Neither of them was here now, and Ryan would not have sent letters on such a topic to his father and knew better than to write to his old housekeeper at all, but he had Jon now. Jon who had asked to be kept informed on whatever moved Ryan at the moment, and Ryan had hesitated for only a moment before reaching for pen and paper.

Perhaps, if there was a machine that could pierce through skin and muscle to lay bare the bones of a man or woman, then perhaps one could also develop an apparatus that was able to locate an individual’s soul. Reveal man’s innermost nature, so to speak. Ryan had to admit that he could not say that he truly wanted his very being laid out for all to see, but the idea was intriguing regardless. He had written quickly, the way he tended to do when an idea had caught his head and heart, the tip of his pen scratching across the paper.

It wasn’t until quite some time later that he had glanced over his writing only to realize he had devoted most of the now four pages to his musings. Thrown, he struggled to find a solid ending, and debated for several long minutes simply tossing the whole thing in the fire. Upon rereading, however, he was rather proud of some of his arguments, and while some people might dismiss them as the fanciful ramblings of a middle-class dreamer attempting to appear above his station, Ryan found that he wanted Jon to think Ryan was smart.

So he wrote, and when he had finally had to pause to light a lamp, he couldn’t help but chuckle at what his school time tutors might say if they saw him now. Ryan’s unwillingness to follow the miracles of science had driven plenty of them to distraction. He hadn’t been able to help it. He still wasn’t usually drawn to such scientific topics, preferring Keats and Shelley to the study of bones or the theory of evolution, but he couldn’t deny that there was something fascinating about all these new discoveries. No doubt Jon heard all about them, away in the city. Ryan did not have much desire to ever visit a city that large, but he could imagine it having its merit if he did so at Jon’s side; Jon taking him to see the boats on the river, Jon introducing him to his business partners. Maybe they’d attend a world fair with all its inventions and exhibitions, all the amazing, intriguing and bizarre artifacts Ryan had read about but never actually seen.

But they probably wouldn’t. Ryan didn’t commend himself very well with large groups of people, particularly strangers, and he hadn’t had an opportunity to make friends since his father had become wealthy enough to take him out of school and place him under the care of a tutor instead. Ryan had thought at the time that it was far likelier that Jon ask him to remain here, out in the country, where Jon could enjoy his company whenever he was home and there was little opportunity for public embarrassment otherwise.

Now, receiving Jon’s reply, Ryan was, quite honestly, charmed. Jon had clearly not read as much as Ryan had on the subject, but he was just as clearly _trying_ , and the thought of Jon, bent over his writing desk, painstakingly penning out thoughts in response to Ryan’s academic ramblings, was enough to coax a stubborn little smile onto his face.

 

Jon’s letters aside, however, Ryan could not say that he enjoyed his stay at Cavelley very much. Cook was still as gruff and disapproving as ever, despite Ryan’s steady improvement under her derisive instructions, and Ryan spent quite a bit of time wandering the halls, wishing himself back to Mrs. Dowerter and his house in Swanns, the cobbled stones, the noises, the ever-present roar of the ocean.

Nothing was as he expected it here. The building was different, and the view, and should he ever encounter another person – even Ophis was hard to come by, on any given day – they would not be anyone he knew. He longed for his books and his chair in his old bedroom and his house with its familiar noises. He desperately missed his guitar as well, and every once in a while he felt a deep swell of resentment towards his father who had refused to let him pack it, assuring him that the Walkers were quite high-class enough to have instruments of their own.

So far, Ryan had only spotted a single upright piano, and badly out of tune, at that. It wasn’t a particularly thrilling find. He had spent just enough time learning to play the piano for everyone to realize he had little natural inclination towards the instrument. He'd been allowed to choose the guitar instead, and had learned to sing passably well, but his true strength lay in analyzing the works of others. He had a fantastic memory for the operas, musical plays, concerts and performances he attended, for the songs he heard from street performers and drunken sailors stumbling down the cobbled streets in the small hours of the morning.

Much to his tutors' chagrin, a melody once heard was stored in Ryan's mind forever, to be retrieved, mulled over, and possibly hummed thoughtlessly in the presence of someone to impress. Here, at Cavelley, he found himself singing just to stave off the chill from the old building, the way the portrait gallery loomed disapprovingly over him whenever he trudged to his room at night. He felt a little silly sometimes, walking the halls with a furtive melody on his lips, but he didn’t think the staff could hear him and they never said anything, so he saw no reason to discontinue the practice.

He didn’t venture out as often as one might have thought, given the circumstances, but he did try to catch a few rays of sunshine as often as possible. Sometimes, when it wasn’t Cook keeping him busy with household tasks indoors, it was the rain that forced him to stay inside, which was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, a day spent indoors was a day in the vicinity of a grouchy, disapproving housekeeper, but it could also provide him with an excuse to bury his nose in his books and not emerge until someone deemed it necessary to drag him back to reality by the hair.

 

He was singing to himself, walking the periphery of the entrance hall, when a familiar smell caught his attention. Perhaps unduly excited, he followed it to find that no, his senses hadn’t deceived him. The hallway and kitchen smelled so strongly of old fish left out in the sun that Ryan hesitated in the entryway, keeping his head down to avoid smacking it into the doorframe. Cook was facing away from him, busy with her knife, and as much as Ryan hated drawing her attention when he could just as easily avoid her, the smell reminded him so strongly of home that he just couldn’t resist.

So he cleared his throat, and when she glared over her shoulder, he offered her an uncertain smile.

“What are we having?” he asked cautiously.

“Trout,” Cook said, indicating the fat, scaly fish laid out on her cutting board. It was without a doubt the origin of the odor, and had probably been caught in a nearby river and brought over by cart, but Ryan didn’t mind. He hadn’t had anything but birds and four-leggers in too long to complain.

Cook gave him a sideways look. “You going to make a fuss?” she asked. “Because Mr. Ophis didn’t catch any hares today, and if you want any, you’ll have to find your own.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan said. It wasn’t very likely that she’d make it in any way that he was used to, but he didn’t very much care. He’d missed having fish. He’d put up with her attitude and her strange recipes if it meant getting his hands on a little taste of home.

“Good.” She bared her teeth at him. “Sit down, you’re going to help.”

As he obeyed, Ryan, quite uncharitably, thought she ought to have some children of her own, so she could have someone else to boss around. Even if he could not for the life of him think of a spouse kind enough to take her.

As if aware of his thoughts, she slammed an earthen bowl down in front of him, full to the brim with walnuts. “Crack these,” she said.

Ryan peered into the bowl with his eyebrows raised. “Are you going to slap my wrists if I eat any of them?”

She laughed at that, loud and a little derisively. “Not hardly. Lord knows you could do with a little bit of meat on your bones.”

Ryan rolled his eyes at that, secretly, but dutifully reached for the knife to get to work. Cracking the shells wasn’t particularly stimulating work, and neither was looking the insides over for molds or illnesses, and so he found himself drifting off, pondering Jon’s most recent letter. Ryan kept it in the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart, and sometimes he took it out, smoothed out the creases and read it over, even though he already knew the words by heart.

Jon, he thought, would have liked Swanns. He seemed like the kind of man who would grow excited at the sight of the many merchant ships arriving from destinations as near as France to such exotic places as India and China. And perhaps Jon would also appreciate Ryan’s own stories, of sneaking off with his friends to shed his clothes and run shrieking into the ocean.

When a quick glance at Cook revealed that she was currently muttering over her pots, he slipped the letter out of his pocket and laid it out next to the bowl he was working on. He didn’t have much chance to look at it, of course, as he had to concentrate just to avoid stabbing himself with the knife in his hands, but it made him feel a little better just to know it was there.

Nevertheless, it distracted him a little, just enough for his knife to slip and nick the skin on his finger. Ryan hissed and quickly closed his lips around the digit to stop the blood flow, and so missed Cook coming up behind him to see what the matter was. He only noticed her when she leaned forward to peer at his letter, attention caught, and though he covered it quickly with his free hand and glared up at her, it was clearly too late, for she clucked her tongue and shook her head.

“It is only a letter,” he said.

Cook touched his chin lightly before she returned to her cooking. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble, mooning over young master Walker like that.”

“I don’t moon,” Ryan said, scowling. He stuffed the letter back into his coat, pretending not to notice how it crinkled and folded.

Cook scoffed. She stirred her spoon through the pot, and when she turned back, her face was set into hard lines. “Are those nuts not shelled yet?” she asked.

Ryan bent his head back over the task, twisting his knife into the shell's crease, although he did give in to the urge to childishly stick out his tongue when her back was turned.

 

The leaves had begun to flutter down from the trees when the first frost came. Ophis hired a couple of local boys to come and help with the apple picking, and Ryan spent several long days scraping his arms and face on the rough bark of the trees, hunting for the reddest ones. A couple they had to leave for the birds, because they were on branches too skinny to hold them, or because they were already damaged by animals or rot.

The hired boys worked hard, but whenever they stopped for some food or rest, they were a loud, boisterous bunch, teasing each other and tossing half-eaten apples back and forth. Some of them would glance curiously Ryan’s way, but they didn’t introduce themselves, and when they started talking about going out for Ale at the pub at night, Ryan watched the birds heading south high above them and imagined making up a song about them for Jon to hear.

The next day, Ryan brought out a book with him to read, a few paces away, while the town boys chattered and joked without him. Once, he glanced up to find Ophis watching him with a sorrowful expression, but the man looked away when their eyes met and occupied himself with other things for the rest of their luncheon.

 

“Is Mr. Walker usually gone this long?” Ryan asked one day when he was scrubbing at a kettle with a ragged cloth, and Cook was nearby cooking blueberries into jam.

Cook raised her eyebrows. Ryan hunched his shoulders defensively, but she didn’t make any disparaging remarks, just shrugged and clucked her tongue. “It happens,” she conceded. “He doesn’t make a habit of it, but sometimes he’ll extend his stay if something happens or the shooting is very good.”

It took Ryan a moment to understand, but then he was quick to shake his head. “Oh, I meant Jon. The younger Mr. Walker, I mean.”

Cook’s eyebrows climbed almost all the way to her hairline. “Master Jonathan,” she said.

Ryan felt his cheeks grow hot. Trust her to immediately draw attention to his inappropriate use of a term of endearment. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but stubbornly remind himself that she ought to be happy they were getting along so well. No one wanted to work for an unhappy master, after all. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Jonathan Walker is the one I mean.”

She watched him for a moment longer, but then she turned to her pot with a shake of her head. “Yes,” she said. “Young master Walker is usually in the city for up to ten days, but it’s turned into a month or a month and a half on occasion. This is nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Right,” Ryan said quietly. “Thank you,” he added after a moment, into the silence. He didn’t look up to gauge her expression.

 

Between his chores and his books, time crept by. Only occasionally did he allow himself to dwell on the fact that Jon’s work seemed to never cease and Mr. Walker had apparently deemed to stay in the mountains for his shooting indefinitely – down that road lay nothing but brooding and misery.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what the point of this was – having Ryan here, during the time when he was supposed to be getting to know his husband, all alone. He had already figured out that Cook couldn’t stand him and Ophis liked to stay as far away from him as possible, so what could this possibly achieve? And it wasn’t as though Ryan was the only one who depended on the outcome of this union.

His father had sent a brief missive informing him of the state of things back in Swanns and inquiring once again after the intended date of the wedding. It lay, unanswered, on the beautiful chestnut desk Ryan had discovered in the library, because Ryan did not know. Jon insisted over and over that the wedding would occur when his father returned from the hunt, and occasionally noted that the senior Mr. Walker’s stay had been extended for another couple of days, but nothing beyond that. In his darkest moments, laying in an unfamiliar bed, gazing up at an unfamiliar ceiling, Ryan thought that perhaps Jon’s father disapproved of the union, and was delaying his return as long as he could in the hopes that the younger Mr. Walker would change his mind. Or perhaps both of them had decided that Ryan was not suitable as a husband, and they were drawing out the date with the intent of making Ryan give up and return home, shouldering the blame and leaving the Walker family shame-free.

When Ryan was a child, his tutors had spent a lot of time reprimanding him for such uncharitable, overly fanciful notions, but Ryan had taken their scolding and punishments as they saw fit and yet had never been able to banish such dark thoughts into the nether where they belonged. So he merely blinked a few times, until his vision cleared, and turned to bury his face in his pillow.

He never slept well on those nights, and spent the mornings preparing breakfast with heavy lids and slow movements, often catching an earful from Cook on top of it all. These moments hardly served to brighten his moods.

And yet, he only walked out on her tirades once. He’d wanted to before, more often than not, but he’d never dared. Hadn’t dared until the day she had to explain to him how to skin a rabbit, and went on to subsequently declare Ryan, and his tutors, and Swanns, and Mrs. Dowerter, and finally his father, useless, because surely the man was nothing if not irresponsible if he hadn’t even bothered to make sure Ryan learn practical skills. Ryan didn’t say that his father hadn’t cared much about his son’s education beyond what people might say about his lack of one, in the end. He didn’t say that he knew how to gut a fish just fine,  
but rabbits were land animals and, to the people of Swanns, too much effort to catch. He didn’t say that Mrs. Dowerter had been the only person to ever fold him into a hug, even though Ryan had pushed out of the embrace and not spoken to her for the rest of the week.

Instead, he picked himself up from the workbench with as dignified an air as he was able, brushed the fine rabbit hairs off his palms, and walked out the door. He forced himself not to look back, because he didn’t know what would be worse – if she watched him go, or if she didn’t. Instead, he marched straight across the property, over the grass despite the well-tended paths all around. He followed the boxwood hedge until he was out of sight from the house, and then continued on straight, towards the shrubs lining the edge of the gardens and the creek that nurtured them.

When he had passed it with Jon on their walk that first morning, he hadn’t had much time to look around. Now, there was nothing to stop him from stepping carefully off the path and through the long grass, setting his feet carefully to avoid slipping on the moist pebbles and rocks lining its sides. He crouched down to pick up one of them, almost entirely white with a silver-grey swirl, and then stayed where he was, letting his gaze sweep over his surroundings.

He could barely even see the house from his vantage point so close to the ground. The bank of the stream and the willows curving towards him hid it from view. On the other side of the water, a small but steep hill climbed sharply upwards, just past a field littered with baby's breath and lavender. It was beautiful, gorgeous in the way only fall days could be; vibrant in color despite the grey skies and the rapidly approaching winter.

Ryan knelt there until his knees began to ache, and then he found himself a mostly dry rock and sat down on it. No doubt Cook would give him a good talking to for shirking his duties as the new housemaid, but, he figured, kicking at the dirt, it wasn’t as though they hadn’t managed without him. And no one could tell him that he caused enough of a disruption to warrant all the extra work. No one cleaned up after him, or had to help him dress, or carry an umbrella for him on his solitary walks. Someone tended to the fireplace in his room, that much was true, but they without a doubt had to do the same when Mr. Walker and Jon were in residence, and once they were wed, the number of occupied rooms would once again go back to what it had been.

_If_ they were ever wed, because there was still no date, only Jon promising his swift return, and his father’s, and Ryan was beginning to think that perhaps they simply wanted to avoid being around Ryan. Which wouldn’t be very fair, considering Ryan had had only half a day to make a bad impression in Jon’s case, and Jon’s father had never even met him, but that had never seemed to stop anyone from disliking him.

Maybe it would be better for everyone if Ryan simply… disappeared. Perhaps he could run away to join a gypsy camp. Their colorful clothes and rambunctious songs had long since intrigued him, and now that he knew how to prepare food and wash clothes, life on the road should not be too hard. He could learn to read palms and lay cards. In Swanns, when he was a youth, the younger boys and girls had sometimes giggled over his mysterious air, mistaking quiet self-sufficiency for something otherworldly and intriguing, so with a headscarf and some gold rings in his ears, Ryan was sure he could convince awe-struck villagers to empty their pockets for him.

But then he thought of Jon, how his face might fall if he returned only to find Ryan gone. Perhaps he’d be overjoyed, free now to wed whoever he wanted, but maybe, just maybe, coming back to an empty house might make him sad. Maybe he would stare out the library window, one of Ryan’s abandoned books clasped loosely in his hands, and wonder whatever had become of his spouse to be. Where he might be, and if he was well, and if perhaps they might meet again, Jon a distinguished gentleman with a family and a name for himself and Ryan barefoot with bangles and a shawl wrapped around his shoulder, but happier than he had ever been. It would be easy, he thought, so easy, to just get up and keep walking until he came across someone willing to take him in and bring him home.

But he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. The Ross name wasn’t worth much, but it was still well-known enough that Ryan running away would do terrible damage not only to Ryan’s father’s reputation, but also to his name-carrying cousins. Even if there wasn’t Jon to consider, Ryan could never bring himself to do that to any of them.

 

Just as he couldn’t bring himself to tell Cook off for her presumption on what Ryan’s duties were in his new household. He sat quietly and bore her ill-tempered instructions and did his level best to comply with all her demands. When he grew too weary of the snide comments and disparaging looks, he escaped to the library. It wasn’t particularly big, though no doubt more extensive than the one he and his father had kept at home, but upon intense perusal, it turned out to hold a number of books Ryan loved and even a couple he didn’t know, and it had that padded window seat overlooking the grounds that Ryan loved to curl up in.

The tea room, where, according to Cook, Jon’s father retired to read his correspondence and his own books, was usually kept the warmest. The library was a lot chillier – less used and also kept that way to protect the paper – but Ryan didn’t mind so much. He wore his warmest garments and brought a throw from a linen cabinet to huddle up in, and with such precautions the temperature in the room was almost easy to bear. If he kept the lamp light low and the door firmly shut, no one even appeared to suspect his whereabouts, and though Ryan sometimes heard footsteps moving about in the hall, it was a rare occurrence that someone deemed it necessary to bother him. Much more often, he found himself carrying whatever book he had become immersed in off to bed, and then read until the sky outside was pitch black and the lamp flickered weakly on the bedside table.

One night, looking up at the stained glass of the lamp, he found himself thinking spontaneously about Swanns, and his father’s house. There, the housekeeper had chided him sometimes for wasting so much oil, but here, no one seemed to care. Perhaps it was just that they didn’t know, or perhaps they could afford it. Maybe they knew how ill at ease he still felt sometimes in this big, strange building, and indulged him.

The thought made him unexpectedly guilty, and so he let his worn copy of Susan Ferrier's _Destiny_ snap shut and then pushed it underneath his pillow with one hand. He used the other to prop himself up so he could lean over and blow out the light. He didn’t let himself think about the sudden darkness as he lay back against his pillow, the darkness and what may be hiding in its cover. Instead, he conjured up an image of his fiancé to keep his imagination occupied. Was Jon the type of man to grow annoyed when Ryan read his books instead of sleeping, or joining his husband in other, more worldly pursuits? Would he laugh and indulge him? Might he even – oh Heavens? – join in, leafing through his own reading with an arm slung casually over Ryan's shoulders?

That being his contemplation, he drifted away, entirely too content to imagine himself sleeping at Jon’s side with no one to disturb them.

 

One morning, Ryan peered out the window to find the ground all the way to the horizon covered in hoar frost. It was an unexpectedly gorgeous sight, but it nevertheless fixed an unpleasant frown on Ryan’s face, and not even the warm water he found in the washbowl on his dresser could sway the expression away.

It was a silly thing to fixate on, perhaps, but it was the final sign that winter was fast approaching. If Jon and his father took any longer to return, Ryan might end up getting married in the snow – in the cold, with the sky heavy with clouds, and everyone rushing away as soon as the ceremony was done with in hopes of finding a fire to warm up at.

He pulled on his clothes with jerky movements, scoffing away the stains that had set at the knees. He’d only get them dirty again, with the chores that had been forced upon him. Nobody cared what he looked like, not to do more than sneer at him, and nobody cared that his wedding was going to be a drab, friendless affair that held as much love and cheer as an old lady’s funeral.

When his cousin had married the baroness’ daughter, the chapel and everyone in it had been drowning in flowers; the walkway had been covered almost entirely in yellow and pink roses, and orchids had been woven into the bride’s hair. Someone had handed Ryan a bouquet to hold, and he’d cradled the lily that had been its centerpiece to his chest and stared at the proceedings in delight.

It was probably a good thing that he’d taken such pleasure in the proceedings then, because with winter looming the way it did on the horizon, there certainly wouldn’t be any flowers at Ryan’s wedding. If the preparations continued at their current pace, it would be too late even for asters and clematis, and Ryan’s hair would have to be decorated with ivy and evergreens. Perhaps a hellebore, if he was very lucky.

Buttoning his shirt with anger-clumsy fingers was hard, but he persevered, pulling on his jacket and cravat with a renewed scowl. He couldn’t imagine exposing himself to Cook’s criticism with his mood already so low, and he was almost as reluctant to survive Ophis and his pitying glances. But did he dare? He fingered the sleeve of his overcoat for only a moment before he decided that yes, he most definitely did. So when he’d made his way out of his room and into the entrance door, he turned away from the stairs leading down to the kitchen and eased open the front door with several cautious glances around him.

The autumn air was cold enough to make him shudder, but anything was better than being cooped up in this wretched house a moment longer, so he wrapped his arms around his torso and set out for parts unknown with long, forceful strides. He scurried along the boxwood hedge, startling badly when he caught sight of Ophis walking across the grounds with a large bucket, but the man didn’t look his way, and Ryan had no trouble at all hiding himself behind a large brush.

It sent a little thrill down his spine to part the leaves and peer through them, keeping a careful eye on the man. It was almost like he was the protagonist in one of his books, spying on the palace guards as he prepared to make his daring escape.

Of course his pleasure at the act didn’t survive for very long, because watching Ophis feed the pigs made him feel incredibly foolish – apparently it was quite unnecessary to enter the pen at all, as the trough stood underneath a window that allowed easy, pig-free access from outside. But why would anybody feel the need to share this information with Ryan, he thought bitterly, hunching his shoulders. He was a bumbling, useless idiot, after all.

With a huff and a sigh, Ryan turned away before the groundskeeper had the chance to spot him after all and saddle him with any more demeaning chores. He slipped away between the trees instead, keeping his steps quick and light, and headed for the creak that separated the cultivated gardens from the greater Walker property beyond. He stepped over it delicately, not wanting to add wet boots to being too lightly dressed, and then followed it towards the road. The house was already gone from sight when he stumbled across a footpath or maybe a deer trail veering away, and so he followed that for a while, until his shoes had begun to pinch and he reached a small grove of trees, perhaps the beginning of a larger forest beyond. He couldn’t see Cavelley at all now, but he had not yet satisfied his need for rebellion, so he followed the path through the trees, alternating between staring up at the way the light fell through the branches and stumbling over rocks and roots.

The trees cleared after a while, and not much later the path Ryan had trusted himself to, ended. There was no cause to fret, however, because there was a depression in the grass not too far away, and Ryan trudged over decisively.

His destination turned out to be an overgrown gravel path climbing in unsteady curves up the side of the hill, overgrown with grasses and dying flowers like something out of a fairy story. Ryan hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the cautioning morals those stories had imparted, and then he scoffed loudly and struck up a brisk pace. Ryan Ross was not afraid of any old wives’ tale. Ryan Walker certainly wouldn’t be.

His feet began to ache after not very long and he had to slow his steps, continuing ever on his way. He was not in any kind of mood to turn back. Instead, he sang dirty sailor songs he’d picked up around the harbor to distract himself, but grew quickly frustrated when he realized that he could not remember more than a verse or two of any of them. Then he amused himself with making up badly rhymed poems about the shrubbery around him, and once about a squirrel that darted out of his way before he could catch sight of more than its tail.

He could not have said how far he had walked when a noise somewhere made him pause and strain his ears. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then something rustled in the undergrowth to his right, and for one long, heart-stopping moment, Ryan’s overeager mind jumped to all the creatures that could possibly be making that sort of noise: a bear, a highway man lying in wait for the unsuspecting traveller, a griffin ready to spring upon him and carry him off as food for her young. And then the brush parted and it was a dog, nothing but a dog, ambling towards him with a wary but pleased expression.

Ryan blinked.

The dog hesitated, freezing a mere handful of feet away. It cocked its head, gave Ryan a questioning look, and then followed the gesture with a near-silent woof.

“Hello,” Ryan said, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello.”

The dog came closer.

Ryan took an involuntary step backwards, and then forced himself to stand still, feeling ridiculous, neither of which seemed to interest the dog in any particular way.

Instead it nosed around the grass, unconcerned, giving Ryan ample opportunity to observe it. The creature he had encountered wasn’t a hunting dog, breed large and pure, and it certainly wasn’t one of the lapdogs that were so fashionable at the moment. No, it was a mutt, with a grizzled snout and light patches in its fur. It looked like it had once been well-fed, but certainly wasn’t any longer. Not mangy, perhaps, but certainly skinnier than a dog of this size and age ought to be.

Ryan took a small, curious step forward, alerting the dog to his presence once again. It barked, once, and when Ryan smiled and held out a hand, the dog sniffed it carefully and whined. It startled him, but then he had to laugh at himself, and it barked again. It turned in an elated circle, during which Ryan could ascertain that he was, in fact, dealing with a girl, and then lifted up and tried to put its paws on his thighs.

“Down,” Ryan said, as sternly as he was able. He took a step back, forcing the dog to drop back onto all fours, and then crowd closer once again, pressing her cheek to Ryan’s knee. Ryan hesitated for only a moment before dropping his hand to the back of her neck and scratching there, which she leaned into with relish. She wasn't the only one enjoying it; Ryan had always loved dogs. He’d adored his father’s foxhound, but it had passed away when Ryan was a boy, and they’d never gotten another one, no matter how Ryan begged.

Now, however, there was a dog in front of him once again, and it was without a doubt happy to see him. She wagged her tail and butted her head against his hands, only stopping when Ryan condescended to pet her some more.

“Hello, girl,” he said quietly. “Hello.”

She wagged her tail at him, tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Ryan couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Hello,” he said again, and reached out to scratch at her neck.

She leaned blissfully into the touch.

“Good girl,” Ryan said softly. He dropped to his knees before he remembered the muddy ground, and then, well, the damage was already done.

The dog darted forward to lick at his chin, undeterred when Ryan craned his neck to escape the enthusiastic tongue. He settled her down by calmly petting her neck, which she leaned happily into. When he paused for a moment, she used the opportunity to roll onto her back and present him with her hairy belly.

Ryan laughed, and indulged her.

 

Eventually, however, his chilled fingers and neglected stomach forced him to admit that it was time to head home. He petted the dog’s head regretfully and then stood, looking around to orient himself. The dog yapped happily, perhaps anticipating a game; she certainly did not make it easy for him to walk away. Ryan looked down at her and sighed, deep and indulgent, and then forced himself to turn around and begin his descent down the hill.

After a moment, the dog’s footsteps started up behind him. Ryan bit his lip, but kept his feet moving steadily forward. He was _not_ going to turn around. He wasn’t.

His resolve stayed reasonably firm right up to the point when he heard the dog whine softly, confused and perhaps even a little hurt. Then he couldn’t help but turn and point, a little helplessly, at the animal trailing along behind him. “Stop that,” he said. “That is most unseemly.”

The dog still appeared most confused, but she had stopped trudging after him when he had turned around, so Ryan set off once again and sent up a quick prayer that this, just this, might go easy for him – just the once.

Naturally, it didn’t work. The dog’s paws dragged along behind him, steady and unfaltering, and it was barely a dozen feet later when he stopped once again.

“Honestly,” he chided, throwing up his hands.

The dog crowded close, still showing no intention of being left behind, which made Ryan smile as much as it worried him. He could just imagine the perfect look of disdain on Cook’s face, should Ryan return with this creature in tow. So he set his hands on his hips, adopted his sternest look, and said, “No.”

The dog wagged her tail.

Ryan couldn’t bring himself to raise his voice or beat her to drive her away. Instead, he scowled at her, which achieved nothing at all. Certainly, should he and Jon ever adopt any children, his husband would have to be the one handling any sort of discipline. Children, Ryan knew, would exploit any weakness they discovered, and if Ryan could not even manage to be stern with one ugly runaway mutt, how on Earth should he be capable of denying a sweet-faced boy or girl anything?

And Ryan was certainly having a hard time keeping up his disapproving façade, made even more difficult by the fact that he did not particularly want to. It was not a good sign - Jon would not be pleased if Ryan returned from an innocent walk with this creature in tow. But then it wasn’t as though Jon would understand what Ryan was struggling with. It was hardly fair, Ryan thought petulantly, crossing his arms and looking down at the happily panting dog. Jon had his work, and when he was at Cavelley, he had his horses. Ryan had chores and a grumpy housekeeper. A handful of books as well, of course, but they could hardly make up for a warm, living being that was actually happy to see him. Why should Ryan have to suffer through every day alone when his husband was constantly surrounded by friends and companions? No, there was no justifiable reason why Ryan shouldn’t be able to keep a dog, and if it turned out to be one that was not at all proper and fashionable, well then – it wasn’t as though Ryan seemed to have much choice in the matter.

At least she and Ryan were well-matched in that regard.

“That seems to be decided, then,” he said, trying to sound more put-upon than he really was. “Shall we?”

He extended a hand, and she jumped a little, barking joyfully. With her determined air, she reminded him of a woman he had once read about in a book, a bonesetter by the name of Mrs. Mapp who, depending which version of events one chose to believe, was either a miracle worker or a vicious quack. Ryan had been fascinated by the brief report. He reached out to scratch at the dog's neck again, and asked quietly, “How do you feel about ‘Sally,’ girl, hm? Is that something you think you’d like?”

She yapped, wagging her tail, but did not look any happier or unhappier than she had before. She probably didn’t care much, which was consent enough for Ryan.

“Sally,” he said, and stroked a long, careful line along her fur. The corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. “Well then, Sally, my girl. Shall we head home?”

The dog certainly did not put up a fuss, following along obediently at Ryan’s side. Only occasionally did she dart off or linger to inspect something in the grass, but usually not for long, and never if Ryan whistled for her to return. It made Ryan smile, the thought that someone was so pleased to see him, so desperate to be with him. At least _someone_ was pleased to see him, and if it couldn’t be Jon, then a dog would have to do.

 

His stomach began growling inconsolably just around that time that he was able to glimpse the manor through the trees, and when they were finally back on the grounds, it was churning with a mixture of nerves and regret. Neither one served to lighten his already dark mood, and he spotted Ophis and Cook lying in wait around every corner while he and the dog inched their way along the hedges.

But the corners were deserted, and nobody came marching from the house to drag him to his chores by the ear. His heart pounded in triple time as if to make up for it, and he was out of breath and uncoordinated when he pulled open the door to the pigpen, but against all odds, no one had bothered them.

It smelled just as bad as it had the last time Ryan had been here, and he thought regretfully of the of the dog’s sensitive nose, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

The dog whined at the darkness on the other side of the door.

“Shsh,” Ryan whispered to her even as he nudged her inside with his knees. He reached down to brush his fingers through her coarse fur. “Quiet,” he said.

She pressed closer to him, apprehensively, but didn’t resist when Ryan tugged her forward by the hairs on her neck. They edged into the shed together, side by side, mindful of the big animals gathered only a few feet away.

“See?” Ryan said with a quivering voice. “Nothing to worry about.” They shuffled past the low gate and back into the niche Ryan had discovered, once upon a time. Once there, Ryan could feel his shoulders unknot painfully, and in response, Sally’s hackles relaxed as well.

“This should do, don’t you think?” Ryan asked quietly, more to himself than anything. “Yes, I think this will be fine. Don’t you think, girl?”

Sally whined softly at his side. Ryan felt a rush of guilt that he was about to leave her here, like this, all alone in unfamiliar surroundings, but it wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter. If he wanted to keep Sally safe, this was the way it was going to have to be.

He urged her to sit for him and then tied one of the ropes loosely around her neck despite her unhappy whine. The other end, he looped around one of the wooden slats fencing in the feed. It was quite loose, still – she would probably be able to slip her make-shift collar if she really wanted to, but he couldn’t bring himself to make it any tighter.

Instead, he rose, took a deep breath, and then pushed through the crowd of bristly pig bodies to inspect their trough. There were a few carrots at the bottom, soft with age but still whole and clean, and the dog set upon them happily when Ryan returned with them in the flat of his palm. She licked it once they were all gone, her tongue wet and warm against Ryan’s skin, and then, when Ryan bent closer, laughing, she attacked his face with equal enthusiasm.

Smiling wide, Ryan found himself hugging her again, and then clinging to her even when she began to squirm. There was just something about having someone so elated to be with him that made him feel warm, all the way to his bones, for the first time in weeks.

 

Cook, to Ryan’s eternal surprise, said nothing when he crept into the kitchen well past lunchtime, just set him to work cleaning out the oven and later on remarked that he needed a bath. Ryan eagerly agreed, even if Cook made him lug up his own water, of course, handing him pots of warmed water whenever he returned to the kitchen but otherwise occupied with boiling the berries Ophis had collected.

Ryan ignored the eyebrows she raised at his straining arms. He refused to let her derision keep him from sinking into the bath with a sigh. He’d helped himself to a handful of dried prunes when Cook wasn’t looking, and now he ate them slowly, savoring the taste and texture between his teeth. There was dirt under his nails now that had never been there before, and he scrubbed at it halfheartedly. Hopefully it would come out before the wedding. Jon would undoubtedly not be very impressed, and Ryan’s father might have a thing or two to say about it as well.

For now, however, Ryan was content to do nothing but lay in the warm water and think of nothing but the way Jon might smile at him upon his return.

He would have to suss out, gently, once they had become more accustomed to each other, how Jon felt about dogs. He eyed the warm, empty rug in front of the fireplace and thought a little guiltily of Sally tied up in the shed with only the bristly pigs for company. It was only a fanciful daydream, of course, but he could still imagine perfectly well how Sally might lie at Jon’s feet while he took care of his correspondence, how Jon might reach down and indulgently rub at her ears. How he might smile at Ryan while he did so.

Still – a fanciful daydream, nothing more.

 

Ryan eased the door to the pigpen open slowly, throwing a quick, rote glance over his shoulder before he headed inside. He’d helped himself to one of the sausages drying in the pantry, hoping rather hopelessly that Cook might not notice. Or that, when she inevitably did, her suspicion and wrath would not immediately fall on Ryan. Perhaps there was a mischievous brownie or other such fabled creature upon which he could lay the blame.

In any case, the trouble he would inevitably find himself in later did not measure up to the surge of joy he garnered from sneaking out to see his dog, because when Sally caught sight of Ryan, she began thumping her tail so hard her whole hindquarters were wagging with it. Her bowl of water had no choice but to suffer through the beating. Ryan pressed his fingers to his lips, to his grin, and Sally stayed obediently quiet as he knelt in front of her and reached out to scratch behind her shaggy ears.

“You hungry, girl?” he asked softly. “You must be hungry.”

She yapped at that, though more likely at Ryan’s tone than his words. Regardless, she set eagerly upon the food Ryan offered her, and only when even the last traces of it were gone from Ryan’s fingers did she settle down enough for Ryan to be able to pet her.

Eventually, though, even that seemed to lose its appeal, and she curled up at his feet, tail thumping heavily against his boots. Following her lead, Ryan sprawled out in the hay, hesitating only a moment before he moved his arm behind his head to protect his scalp from the prickly stalks.

“We could go see the world,” he said. “Jon and you and I, we could go everywhere. See the pyramids in Egypt and the statue in New York. We could go to India, even, see them weave silk and pick tea.” He raked his free hand through the hay. “I think that could be nice.”

There wasn’t much possibility for such a trip, of course. Ryan knew that. Travelling was expensive, and even if they had had the funds to spare, Jon didn’t leave Ryan with the impression that he was keen on leaving his home and family behind. But Ryan had always been a dreamer, and while the city’s high society held no particular interest for him, he could lose himself in travel reports, in tales of exotic lands and foreign customs. He’d be a stranger there, odd due to his very nature and not merely because he couldn’t quite grasp the finer points of high society. No one would care that his French was lacking and that his personal taste in fashion never quite seemed to match up with that of the times. No one would raise disdaining eyebrows at his inability to appreciate quail eggs and caviar.

They could go to Africa, perhaps, see the Foreign Legions, gape at the elephants and watch tribal warriors do their dances. Or perhaps they might stray as far as Persia one day, see the cities and the Saracens. Jon with his penchant for horses was sure to love it; riding along the desert with the sand scattering between the hooves, wrapped up in cloaks to keep the merciless heat at bay. Ryan had read about the markets with their sweet fruit and heady teas, the colorful tiles in the doorways and the monkeys on chains trained to entertain fascinated visitors. How much farther could they go from Cavelley Hall with its cold, empty rooms and its flavorless meals?

Caught in his musings, he didn’t react immediately when Sally came to inspect the way he lay stretched out in the hay, and so caught her agile tongue full across the lips. Laughing, he shied away from her eager greeting, mindful of his clothes and her muddy paws, but when she’d quieted down he still leaned up and wrapped his arms around her wiry body. She seemed well pleased with that, nuzzling his neck and, after a moment, licking at his ear, and Ryan held her tight until she settled down warm and heavy against his side.

He knew his singing voice wasn’t much to brag about – one of his major shortcomings as a companion – but he still liked the activity, liked the way it soothed him, even if perhaps the sound wasn’t as remarkable or striking as it could have been. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to listen to him, anyway, except the dog, and Ryan had the sneaking suspicion he could sound like a toad and she would still press happily against his side.

So he sang, children’s rhymes and little ditties, whatever melody happened to appear in his head. Sometimes, when Sally appeared to respond favorably to one of them, he repeated that one for a little while, only moving on when her ears twitched away again.

She dozed off after a while, but Ryan didn’t mind, moving on to the quieter songs instead, softer and more somber, until footsteps coming from outside had him falling suddenly silent.

“Mister Ross?” came the call a moment later, so close, too close, leaving Ryan’s heart to patter in a frantic beat. “Are you in there?”

Ryan sprang to his feet, urging Sally to stay down and be silent even as he hurriedly brushed at the hay clinging to his clothes. “What is it?” he called out, striding over to the entrance in an attempt to stall the inevitable. He managed to slip out the door just as Ophis was drawing it open, and then immediately took a step back, drawing the man's attention away from the building.

“Did you need help with something?” he asked, a little brusquely.

Ophis’ eyes narrowed a little, but then he shook himself. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, Mr. Ross. I was hoping for your help with one of the oak branches. The wind brought it down last night, and it’s too heavy for me to move on my own.”

Ryan nodded, and waited for Ophis to lead the way before he carefully closed and latched the door to the pigpen.

The branch Ophis had mentioned was indeed very large, laid out across a flower bed and carving a steep depression into the rhododendron bush growing next to it, and it took quite some doing for Ryan to maneuver his end onto his shoulder. Once there, however, he found the weight quite bearable. Perhaps four weeks earlier, the task might have made him falter, but after having been subjected to over a month of rigorous exercise, Ryan had developed a wiry layer of muscles stretching over his long limbs.

“Lead the way, sir,” he said, nodding at Ophis.

The man gave him a curious look in return but obediently set out, and Ryan, unused to success in completing menial tasks and despite the close call from earlier, found a small but triumphant smile playing about his mouth.

 

The next morning dawned bright and cheerful, and Ryan found himself doing his work around the house in an unusually good mood. In his latest letter, just arrived that morning, Jon had promised to return within the week, the exact date depending on how quickly he could wrap up his business venture. Cook had, of course, set Ryan to work immediately, and his arms ached from a day of scrubbing sheets against the washboard and lugging loads of wet fabric outside to dry in the October sun. He’d cleaned out the grates and polished the windowpanes in Jon’s rooms, and then Jon's father’s also because apparently his arrival was also imminent, but no one saw it necessary to inform Ryan of such things.

If Jon’s father was returning soon, then the wedding would not be put off any longer. Jon and Ryan would be married. Ryan allowed himself a little smile at that before he carefully cleared his expression and went to pester Ophis for the exact date of the ceremony to send to his father, only shaking his head when the man commented on his cheer.

Ryan wrote his note to his father, but that was hardly the extent of the preparations to be done. Under Cook’s dissatisfied eye, Ryan scrubbed and chopped and arranged and polished, rinsed and dried and straightened and lugged around. And whenever Ryan thought for sure that everything was done, that there was nothing more to take care of, that surely he had handled it all, then Cook came to drag him off to the kitchen to help. There would be apple pie served at the wedding, she had confided, a favorite of both Jon’s and Mr. Walker’s. And while it was still too early to prepare food for the event, the house nevertheless smelled of it, of her attempts of tampering with recipe and decoration, and there was a moment when, with Ryan smiling through a mouthful of painfully hot fruit and crumble and earning a snort in return, that it did not even occur to him to wish himself back to the sea.

 

That night, Ryan crept through the halls with a robe wrapped tightly around him until he had found a mirror, a full-length one with an ornate frame, in one of the unused rooms. After a furtive glance around, he unknotted his robe and stripped it off, peering at himself critically in the dusty surface.

His nightclothes always made him feel ridiculous, knobby arms and legs protruding from a saggy white shirt, but with Ryan's slender figure, it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps Jon would manage not to laugh when he saw him. Although, and the thought made Ryan flush a deep red, a lot of Jon’s primary concern that night would be how to get Ryan _out_ of his hideous nightshirt, or at the very least how to ruck it out of the way. Would Jon be cautious, he wondered, courteous and kind? Or perhaps overcome with passion? Maybe shy? He desperately wished he knew Jon a little better, so that he could at least make an educated guess.

Instead, all he had to go on was the way Jon had touched him occasionally, gentle but not uncertain, how he expressed himself, how he watched Ryan carefully to make sure he had spoken his mind.

The logical solution to that particular problem, of course, was to wait. Sooner or later, Jon would have to return, and then he and Ryan would be married and Ryan would find out what Jon was like as a husband firsthand. His husband. The words sent a little thrill through Ryan. Jon would be his husband, and Ryan would be married, and everything would be different then.

However, and the thought made his brows furrow, Jon’s return wasn’t an entirely positive development. With Jon there, and then his father, hiding Sally away from prying eyes would become increasingly difficult. Especially as Ryan could tell that the confinement was beginning to wear on her – she paced and whined and nosed at the rough-shod boarding of the shed, and Ryan had to pat her and assure her that soon, soon she’d be allowed out to run to her heart’s content, even if he had no way of knowing when that day might be. At least the pigs’ odor covered the smell of the corner she’d chosen to do her business in, so a single visit a day would suffice whilst he still had to be careful about when he went out to see her.

He had briefly entertained the thought of sneaking out at night, but unless his marriage proved to be particularly dismal, his husband would surely notice Ryan slipping out of bed in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps if he pleaded exhaustion during the day – but no, Jon liked to ride and walk in the sun and hunt with his father, and it certainly would not do for him to come across the husband he was expecting to be fast asleep in their bed out in the fields instead, frolicking with an overeager little mutt.

Oh, it was just no use. Ryan could fret and worry for days, but he wouldn’t know how these things might go until they were already set in motion. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. And besides, maybe Jon wouldn’t let Sally into the house, but perhaps he wouldn’t mind a dog on the grounds.

Perhaps this would all work out fine.

 

Ryan doubled his furtive visits to Sally over the next couple of days, and spent his evenings perched on the sofa in the downstairs parlor, ears straining for the sound of clattering hooves. Though not a particularly patient individual, he occupied himself with waiting far longer than he usually would have, before he finally had to admit that whenever Jon planned on coming, his arrival wouldn’t come faster just because Ryan wanted it to.

So he withdrew to the library once again, away from Cook’s keen eyes as she tidied up around him, and admittedly neglected his dog a little in his disappointment, and it wasn’t long at all before he found himself staring out into the darkness beyond the library windows, brooding.

There was a book in his hands, opened to reveal a drawing of a scaly, sharp-toothed fish that had been found on the shores of some far-off island. The text hazarded the guess that it had come from the deep, open ocean, as black as the night beyond the window, and Ryan leaned his temple against the glass and imagined. He could almost see the fins flickering out in the darkness, sharp flashes of scales and tailfins that disappeared as quickly as they had come into his vision. Perhaps a couple of them might draw closer over time, lured in by the light spilling out into the darkness, and mouth along the window panes, following Ryan’s finger when he trailed it across their vision. Following it for just a moment, until their intrigue had passed and they disappeared.

“Hello,” a soft voice said by his ear, close enough to make Ryan just about tumble off his perch in his shock. When he whirled around, book clutched to his chest and his heart pounding in his ears, Jon had stepped back, smiling sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to startle you, but you appeared so engrossed that it might have been impossible to draw your attention any other way.”

“It’s alright,” Ryan assured him. He let the book sink, feeling silly, although his heart still thrummed merrily away. “It’s my own fault, I’ve been told, for letting myself be so absorbed in a silly little story in the first place.”

But Jon shook his head. “Don’t say such things,” he said. “There is nothing wrong whatsoever with losing yourself in a good book.”

Ryan’s father, tutors and nurses would not have agreed, but Jon was to be his husband now, so Ryan supposed he ought to value his opinion over those he had been exposed to before. And, well, the idea of being an avid, excitable reader as a positive quality was more than a little tempting.

Then he took in Jon’s weary appearance, his dirt-scuffed boots and muddy coat, and could not help but chide himself for being so self-absorbed.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, setting the book down on the cushions and crossing his arms over his chest. “How thoughtless of me. Sit! You’ve only just arrived, you must be tired.”

“I am,” Jon said, and he certainly looked it; pale-faced and hollow-cheeked, his hair hanging limply into his forehead. His smile, though, was just as sweet as Ryan remembered it. “Cook is drawing me a bath as we speak. But I wanted to see you before I retired.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Ryan insisted. He could feel the blush heating up his cheeks. He felt silly for it, but his heart had started up a frantic dance at the thought that Jon might want to see him before he even took off his coat. “I would have been fine waiting until supper, or tomorrow.”

“I wanted to,” Jon said softly. He leaned closer and lifted up his hand, like he might like to brush it against Ryan’s cheek. Ryan’s breathing hitched involuntarily, and that damnable breath was enough for Jon to jerk away as if he had been burnt, clear his throat and look away.

“I’ll go take that bath now,” he said. “But I’ll see you for supper?”

Ryan nodded quickly. “Supper,” he confirmed.

Jon stood there for just a moment, a little awkwardly, before he bobbed his head in return. “Supper,” he said, and turned to go.

Ryan bit his lip, watching him depart. He shifted his feet. “I’m glad you’re home, Jon,” he said, when Jon was almost at the door.

His fiancé paused with his hand on the doorknob. His smile, when he turned, was infinitely sweet. “As am I, Ryan,” he said softly. “As am I.”

 

“I’d like to show you something,” Jon said when Cook was clearing the dishes away, smiling at Ryan across the table. “I wanted to, earlier, but I had hopes that we might be able to take our time.”

Ryan dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “How mysterious,” he said, making sure to smile so Jon could tell he was teasing.

Jon laughed a little in return, but didn’t offer any more information as he lead Ryan upstairs and into Ryan’s bedroom. Ryan’s inappropriate thrill at having Jon here, right here, was short-lived in the face of the crate someone had set down at the foot of his bed. It wasn’t huge, but certainly large enough to draw attention, and had a latch but no lock.

Ryan stared at it for a moment, until Jon went to stand next to it and smiled.

“Here,” he said, giving the chest a little nudge. “It’s for you.”

“What’s this?” Ryan asked. He would have liked to run his hands curiously over the top, but he’d had his fingers slapped too many times as a child for that very infraction, and it was a bad habit he only let himself indulge in when he was sure he was alone.

“An apology,” Jon said, rocking on his toes.

“An apology?” Ryan echoed. He felt his heart sink. Jon had not quarreled with him, so whatever refraction he felt he needed to make up for, it must have been something he had committed in secrecy.

He’d heard of that, of men returning with placating baubles for their wives from an evening spent with their mistresses, of women being especially passionate and considerate to their spouses after weekends away with their lovers.

He looked up at Jon, who grinned a little and said, “Go on, open it,” entirely without any sort of guilty tinge to his words, so he knelt and slowly undid the latch. He looked up at Jon one more time and then pushed back the lid, revealing dozens of books, stacked close together to fit as many into the crate as possible.

Ryan was dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open, but his focus was more on pulling treasure after treasure from the chest and laying them carefully aside, _Recollections of the Lake Poets_ and _Mary: A Fiction_ and _Hours of Idleness_. He could hear Jon laughing delightedly, but it wasn’t until Ryan freed a copy of _Life of Samuel Johnson_ from the depths of the crate that he looked up again, shaking his head, and said, “Jon.”

The man twisted his fingers together. “I’m sure you’ve read some of them already,” he said, a charming little blush settling on his features, “but the clerk at the bookstore assured me that these were all either recent or much acclaimed, so perhaps you’ll find something to intrigue you.”

Ryan, in a fit of silly elation, pressed the biography to his chest and beamed. “Thank you,” he said. “Jon, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Jon said, reaching down to briefly squeeze Ryan’s shoulder. “I hope this means I’m forgiven? I can assure you I'm more than sorry for leaving you on your own for so long.”

“Jon.” Ryan laughed at that, dropping back to take the weight off his aching knees and folding his legs underneath him instead. “I was never cross with you, but yes, you are forgiven. More than forgiven.”

He tilted his head up, still smiling. A moment later, the answering expression faded from Jon’s face as his gaze dropped down to Ryan’s lips, and then he drew back and cleared his throat.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, far less steadily than he usually spoke. He shook his head. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said quietly. “Goodnight, Ryan.”

“Stay,” Ryan blurted out. He bit his lip. “This is wonderful, Jon, really, but if you would stay and tell me a bit more of your trip, I’d. I’d really like that.”

“Oh,” Jon said. Ryan could have been imagining it, but he thought he saw a dull flush spread over Jon’s cheeks, and that was what gave him the courage to add, “Please.”

“Alright.” Jon let out a shaky breath, and then he settled next to Ryan on the carpet and picked up the topmost book.

“Did you know my friend William claims to have met Charles Dickens once?”

 

Jon was already wide awake when Ryan stumbled into the parlor for breakfast, having been recruited by Cook to stir the porridge while his eyes would barely open. Jon smiled at the sight of him, but didn’t comment, which Ryan was grateful for. He most definitely did not have enough brain power to spare at the moment to explain to his future husband how he had developed a habit of crawling into the kitchen to help while the sun was barely up.

He begged off of keeping Jon company, however, despite his awakening stomach and the way Jon’s face fell at the news, and headed off to the entrance door. The driveway and the grassy patches beyond were quiet and deserted. He could still hear Jon’s voice drifting out from the drawing room, and so he quickly slipped out the door, glancing over his shoulders time and time again on his way to the pigpen. The dog was elated when he eased through the door, tail thumping heavily against the ground. She barked, once, before Ryan had time to rush over and present her with the chicken cuttings he’d squirrelled away. His heart thumped even more painfully at the sound, but after what seemed like an age, the only thing he heard was still Sally’s wet slurping.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered, rubbing his hand forcefully over her side. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to think of something.”

He didn’t dare stay for more than feeding and a couple of pats, but he didn’t think he imagined Sally’s crestfallen look when he got back to his feet after only a few short minutes. She whined sadly at his departure, despite the warning finger he pressed to his lips. Frowning, Ryan slipped out the door as quietly and discreetly as he could, praying to whoever might listen that she would choose to sulk in silence rather than voice her displeasure.

He couldn’t lose her yet. He couldn’t.

He half expected Jon to be waiting outside the shed with sternly crossed arms, but the yard was as empty as it had been upon his arrival. Even his darted, guilty glances around him didn’t reveal any disapproving residents of the estate. Still, Ryan stopped several times on his way back to the house to brush straw from his clothes, even after he could no longer spot any of it. He felt the phantom itch of it everywhere, and was so preoccupied with erasing any and all evidence of his clandestine mission that he just about bumped into Jon at the door, recoiling even as Jon smiled.

“There you are,” he said happily, as if he hadn’t almost given Ryan the fright of his life.

Ryan stammered something about feeling the need for fresh air this morning, and Jon said, “Well, you could hardly have picked a finer morning for it,” and ushered him into the dining room for another attempt at breakfast.

 

Jon, it turned out, had decided that it was now time to address whatever still need to be taken care of before the ceremony. It was to be a morning wedding, he told Ryan with a smile. Ryan nodded easily. He had never expected to marry into a family important or wealthy enough to pay the fee for a daytime ceremony. And, and this he could admit to himself, he was a little glad he would not have much time to work himself up beforehand. Jon smiled his approval at Ryan’s easy acceptance, and he went on to explain who would attend, what meal Cook would prepare, the suit Ryan was expected to have tailored for him.

“I’ll accompany you, of course,” Jon said, tapping his nails against the tablecloth. “My suit was finished while I was in the city, but I would not dream of sending you off to submit to our sadistic seamster on your own.”

The words weren’t very reassuring, but his smile certainly made up for it, as did the way he lightly brushed Ryan’s smallest finger with his own.

Ryan bit his lip. After a brief moment, Jon flushed and looked away, and Ryan cleared his throat. “Do we have an appointment with the tailor?” he asked quietly.

Jon nodded at that. “Yes, we’ll leave right after breakfast. I thought it best to get started at once. The wedding is not far off now, after all.”

Ryan smiled. It wouldn’t be long now at all.

 

They took the gig into town, with Jon in the driver’s seat and Ryan by his side, because there apparently wasn’t anything Jon couldn’t do. Ryan was aware that Jon probably would have liked to ride, and that it was for Ryan’s benefit that they’d taken the carriage instead. He felt a twinge of guilt at that. No doubt Jon had been looking forward to being able to ride again upon his return to Cavelley.

However, he seemed content enough at the moment, ushering the horse down the road with gentle flicks of the reins, occasionally pointing out personal landmarks and using them to calculate how much longer it would be. After a while, when the numbers Jon announced continued to shrink, Ryan found himself growing just a little exited. He hadn’t yet gone into town, despite having lived at Cavelley for several weeks now. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever even been in a town that small, except perhaps to spend the night at an inn while passing through. It was a little strange to think he was one of these people now, someone who spent his life in the country and only occasionally ventured out for a new book or a ribbon or two. His school time friends would no doubt laugh if they should learn about these strange circumstances Ryan now found himself in.

But, he thought, turning to catch Jon smiling at him, perhaps they would be a little jealous as well.

He gently bumped his elbow into Jon’s side, a brief touch that could easily be blamed on the jostling of the carriage. Jon laughed, and then his features eased into something softer when he saw Ryan smiling at him.

“What is it?” he asked, but his smile didn’t fade, and Ryan was content to sit at his side and not say anything for a while.

Unfortunately, his joyous mood only lasted until they reached the town proper, and Jon jumped off the wagon to secure the horse and then come around the vehicle to help Ryan off. There weren’t many people about, but the ones that lingered on the street to chat or wait for someone to return from a shop certainly felt no compulsion about staring. Ryan felt his cheeks flush as he laid his hand into the one Jon offered him, and the impact of the sole of his shoe hitting the ground he felt all the way into his bones.

Jon, unconcerned and ever the gentleman, offered him his elbow and squeezed Ryan’s hand with his own. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. “Did something upset you?”

Ryan shook his head quickly. He certainly was not about to make a fuss in front of all these people.

Jon drew his brows close together before he offered Ryan his arm. “The tailor is just this way,” he said, and sent suspicious glances up and down the street as he lead Ryan toward their destination, where a bell above the door announced their arrival.

“Mr. Ammon?” Jon called into the shop, which was, as far as Ryan could see, nothing more than an entryway and a fitting room. “It’s Jonathan Walker, and Mr. Ross.”

“Welcome,” a man’s voice returned, and a moment later a small, dark-haired gentleman emerged through a discreet door and shook hands with Jon. “Is this him?” the man asked, giving Ryan a once-over with an appraising eye.

Jon laughed. “The one and only,” he said. “Mr. Ammon, please meet Mr. Ross.”

“It’s a pleasure,” the tailor assured him with a sharp smile. “The measurements provided by your father were mostly accurate, I’d say, so this shouldn’t take long.” He indicated the screen set up inside the sitting room. “Go ahead, I’ll bring the suit out in just a moment.”

Ryan looked helplessly at Jon, who smiled a little ruefully. “I have to check in on the hatter,” he said, and Ryan didn’t think he imagined the regret in his tone of voice. “I’ll be quick. I promise you’ll hardly even notice I was gone.”

Ryan highly doubted it, but he smiled bravely and, quite daringly, brushed his fingers against Jon’s forearm. “Don’t let me keep you,” he said, and Jon’s fingers moved ever so lightly against his before he pulled away.

“Mr. Ammon will take good care of you,” he said, and then he went, pulling the brim of his hat deep into his face as he did so.

Ryan watched him go as long as he dared, but the tailor ushered him behind the screen almost immediately, and returned a moment later with long swaths of fabric draped delicately over his arm. With only a little direction, he left Ryan to change, and when Ryan emerged, dressed in what was to be his wedding suit and clutching awkwardly at the waist of his trousers, Mr. Ammon smiled gently and urged him over to stand on the stool set up in the middle of the room.

There was a floor-length mirror tucked away in a corner, and while the tailor scurried around him with his pen and his pins, Ryan used the opportunity to take a good look at himself. It turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Whatever measurements his father had sent were indeed accurate, because the suit fit almost perfectly. Yes, it was a little too long in the leg and too wide at the waist, but the tailor assured him that these were easily fixed, and went to work marking up the fabric at Ryan’s ankles.

His crouched position allowed Ryan to inspect himself in the mirror without any distractions. His suit was subtle rather than gaudy, held in shades of grey with elaborate stitching along the cuffs and lapels. It worked surprisingly well with his coloring, and also with his figure. While most clothes made him look awkward and gangly, these accentuated his long limbs in a flattering way, giving him a long, lean, graceful air. With his own reflection staring back at him, Ryan found himself admitting that yes, he looked like a groom in these clothes.

Yes, this was acceptable. He could marry Jon in this.

He could see himself in the church already, waiting with the priest with a crown of small but delicate winter flowers resting on his head for the youngest Mr. Walker to arrive. Perhaps Jon might be a little late, a little delayed, and there would be unhappy butterflies in Ryan’s belly and the crowd would whisper quietly but then he would arrive, throw open the doors and beam at Ryan with all his might. Or what if some old suitor of Jon’s should appear instead, during the ceremony, no less: Throw open the chapel doors and demand Ryan step down from his or her rightful place. And maybe Jon would smile, relieved and charmed, and reach out to embrace the usurper. Or maybe he wouldn’t, just maybe; maybe his face would cloud over in anger and he would demand the new arrival be silent, or else face his blades at dawn, and he would turn to the minister and demand they be married immediately, so he should have at least one night with his darling intended.

“You like it, then?” the tailor asked with satisfaction clear in his tone, and Ryan, startled, laid his fingers against his lips to find that he was smiling.

He nodded belatedly, and Mr. Ammon smiled toothily at him. “If you’d like to change again,” he said, gesturing at the screen, and then stepped back to allow Ryan to step off the stool and slip behind it.

He’d barely managed to unfasten the buttons at his throat when the bell above the shop’s door jangled merrily, and then there was Jon’s voice, asking casually, “Ryan? Are you decent?”

“Mostly, yes,” Ryan agreed, smoothing absently at the lapels of the suit’s jacket.

“Excellent,” Jon said, sounding closer already, and then he rounded the screen and let his gaze wander all over Ryan’s partially-clothed body as if he had any right at all to be there.

Ryan drew back farther behind the screen. He felt oddly exposed, even though he was wearing more layers than he had before in his _life_. There was just something about standing there in an unbuttoned jacket of richly embroidered brocade, silk cravat looped loosely around his neck, and even if the only skin he was showing was the pale triangle at the base of his neck, it took all he had not to shrink back and clutch his scarf to his chest like some hysterical book character.

Instead he froze, dropping his gaze and hoping Jon might see his intrusion for what it was and withdraw. But however observant Jon might otherwise be, this time he did not seem to notice Ryan’s discomfort. “Oh, that looks very nice,” he said easily. He raised his voice. “Mr. Ammon, this is excellent work.”

“Thank you very much,” came the tailor’s voice from somewhere in the back of the shop. "Mr. Ross appeared quite satisfied with it as well."

"As he should be," Jon called back, and then turned calculating eyes on Ryan, and Ryan finally managed to find his voice and protest.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see a spouse in their wedding clothes?” he asked, trying for a smile.

Jon laughed too, more loudly than Ryan thought was warranted under the circumstances. “Only for the groom,” he said. “And Father won’t be arriving until tonight, so I daresay we’ll be fine.”

Ryan’s bashfulness quickly turned to confusion, and then horror. “Pardon?” he said, voice surprisingly steady for how faint he suddenly felt.

“Father sent a message from Brunswick that he plans on returning this evening, did no one tell you?” He hesitated, then laid a warm hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Are you feeling alright? You’re turning awfully pale.”

Ryan drew back, mind reeling. He laid a hand against the screen's frame to steady himself. “He’ll be back in time for the ceremony?” he asked.

“Well, it’s not as though he can miss his own wedding,” Jon said, laughing again, albeit awkwardly this time. He took a step closer, so close Ryan could almost feel Jon’s exhales ghosting across his skin, and settled his fingers against Ryan’s upper arm.

“Oh,” Ryan murmured foolishly. Jon’s father. His father? That couldn’t be right.

Could it?

No, Jon had never claimed to be Ryan’s future husband, had never said the words outright, Ryan didn’t think – but then Jon had never said he _wasn’t_. Although why would he, if he thought Ryan was aware of the circumstances… It explained the casual way he and Jon had been left to their own devices, at least. And a gentleman with three sons would need no further heirs and could happily marry another man, if he so wished, or if said man’s father pressed enough.

Hs head, already spinning, suddenly began to hurt, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his temple.

Jon’s grip tightened on him when he swayed. “Ryan?” he asked, voice so low as to be almost intimate.

“No, I don’t suppose he could,” Ryan found himself saying.

When he looked up, Jon was frowning at him. “Perhaps we should leave the rest of the fitting for some other time,” he said, his hand still soft and warm on Ryan’s arm.

Ryan managed a nod and a smile, bowing his head to hide his expression when Jon turned away to beckon the tailor. He waited until Jon was out of sight, until his voice was quiet enough to be on the other side of the store, until he stripped out of the suit as quickly as he possibly could without damaging it. Then he emerged, having draped the fabrics over the screen’s frame, and went to stand by Jon and the most irate Mr. Ammon, who was protesting loudly.

Ryan was having a hard time concentrating, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Jon shook his head, kindly but with determination.

“We’ll return when Mr. Ross is feeling better,” he soothed, hand moving a little as though to reach for Ryan once again.

Ryan bit his lip, and he must have swayed a little, because a mere blink of an eye later, Jon’s warm, sturdy arm was curved gently around his back.

“Some other time, Mr. Ammon,” he said.

Whatever quality there was to his tone, it was finally enough for the tailor to look up into Ryan’s face and fall silent.

Ryan was more than willing to die from the mortification, and he would have surely managed the feat if only he’d been able to gather his wits about him. As it was, he barely managed to lean against Jon’s strong arm, letting his fiancé – not his fiancé, not, _not_ \- take all his weight.

Not his fiancé at all.

He drew back when Jon pushed open the door for him, mindful of the curious eyes waiting for them, and found himself vaguely surprised that the streets were empty. Like insects sensing a storm, the town's residents had scattered, leaving no one but Jon and Ryan himself.

It was probably a good thing, considering. Ryan didn’t even want to imagine the talk that might spring up if someone saw him heading into the tailor’s cheerfully enough and later emerge looking as though he were about to cry. There was just no good that could come of it.

The thought wasn’t what made Ryan decline Jon’s help in getting onto the gig, however. No, it was the sharp, piercing knowledge that it was nothing but a friendly touch, nothing there but familial attachment. _That_ was what caused him to draw back from Jon’s offered hand, despite Jon’s confusion and hurt, both of which stung but weren’t even close to the pain caused by the knowledge that he wouldn’t ever be the one to soothe that hurt, smoothe those furrowed brows.

Still, when Jon asked, quietly, whether he was alright, Ryan produced a brittle smile. He was fine. His throat did not feel full, and his eyes were decidedly _not_ stinging, and everything was fine.

 

Jon, thank God, didn’t press. He grew steadily more subdued on their way, and by the time they came to a stop outside the house, his shoulders were hunched around his ears. But he didn’t ask.

Ryan climbed off the wagon of his own steam, attempting to keep some distance between Jon and himself without offending him, but he didn’t think he succeeded very well. In any case, Jon looked distinctly unhappy when he took Ryan’s coat from him in the entrance hall and said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I think I’d like to retire for a while,” Ryan said softly.

Jon, his eyes soft with a worry that had Ryan turning his face away, merely nodded. “Ring for Cook if there’s anything you need,” he said. “Anything, Ryan, alright? Or myself. You can always come to me.”

Ryan managed a faint “Thank you,” and withdrew from Jon’s concerned gaze. His legs felt as if they could barely hold him, but fear of having to face anyone else in his state sent him hurrying along the corridors, and when he’d finally slammed his bedroom door behind him, he could barely catch his breath.

With his heart hammering away inside his chest, Ryan collapsed back against the door. He allowed himself several deep, painful breaths before he pushed himself upright again. It was far too early still to retire, but Ryan, feeling utterly ill-equipped to deal with the world at the moment, nevertheless unbuttoned his jacket and his waistcoat, took off his shoes and crawled into bed. At least there, with the covers pulled up to his chin, no one could ambush him with casual, life-changing announcements.

 

Despite his wildly spinning mind, he must have dozed off a little, because it seemed like no time at all before a noise at the door startled him into full consciousness.

“Ryan?” he heard Jon ask, accompanied by several sharp knocks.

Ryan stared at the door, his sleep-addled mind uncomprehending.

After a while, the knocking grew quieter, if not any less insistent. “Ryan, speak to me, please.”

“I’m not feeling well,” Ryan called, and it was true. He felt dizzy and nauseous, cheeks burning hot with shame. His voice came out thick and tearful to match, and Jon did not say anything for several long heartbeats.

“Shall I send for some tea?” he asked finally. He sounded so concerned, almost desperate, and Ryan thought _stepson, stepson_ and bit his lip to keep the tears from spilling over.

“No,” he managed to call out. “No, thank you.”

Jon was silent again, but not for long. “Would you like me to call for a doctor? Ryan?”

That made him laugh, though quietly, with just a hint of desperation. A doctor. What would he diagnose Ryan with; heartsickness?

“No, thank you,” he made himself call back. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

Jon was quiet for a while, long enough that Ryan found himself wondering if maybe he’d gone to fetch the physician after all. His, “If you say so,” when it came, was subdued.

It was enough to make Ryan bite his lip. He didn’t want to upset Jon, that wasn’t his intention at all. “I’ll be fine, Jon,” he called, as firmly as he was able.

“Alright,” Jon returned after a moment. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Ryan didn’t reply, and Jon didn’t say anything else.

He must have left eventually, because Ryan drifted off to sleep again undisturbed, and only woke some time later, when the shadows cast by the light outside the windows had already begun to lengthen. He had hoped he might feel refreshed, a little less despairing, but it seemed to him as though the time that had allowed everything to sink into his subconscious had only made everything worse.

Even with his eyes open, he clearly recalled the stern, forbidding expression Jon’s father wore in the portrait in Jon’s mother’s room. A disapproving, critical expression that did not bode very well for Ryan’s future. What would Mr. Walker think of Ryan’s current behavior? he wondered. He could not for the life of him imagine the man indulging him, not the way Jon currently was.

Ryan laid his arm over his eyes like that might hide him from the world, and tried not to think of anything.

Some time later, when there was a knock, a quiet, hesitant “Ryan?” he quickly turned his head away and forced himself to take deep, even breaths, even though his chest was so tight he thought he might die. The door opened quietly a moment later, and Ryan let his eyes flutter shut and didn’t move, only breathed, deep and steady, in and out and in, until the door was pulled shut again without the damning sounds of footsteps coming closer. There were low voices after that, too quiet to make out, and then silence.

It had been Jon, he thought. Jon who called him Ryan, who was so concerned for him, but the person he was speaking to? Perhaps it was Mr. Walker, who’d first glimpsed his fiancé laid out in his bed as motionless as a corpse, who’d perhaps seen Ryan’s fingers tremble on top of the bedspread, who hadn’t ever done anything wrong except to be the man Ryan hadn’t thought he would marry.

 

He could not have said, later on, when he had fallen asleep. It had been dark out, and when he woke from his uneasy slumber to a dizzying onslaught of memories, there was a tray sitting on his nightstand with a cold, over-steeped pot of tea and a bowl of porridge that had long since congealed but still smelled strongly of cinnamon.

With a guilty thought to spare for the work that had gone into it, he pushed the bowl away and struggled free of the covers. It was still early in the day. Time for breakfast, perhaps, but not much later than that; the sun was still low on the horizon. There was still a chance of sneaking out to Sally without running into anyone – without running into Mr. Walker. Yes, Jon had sung the man’s praises, and he was most likely kind and decent and just as good a man as Jon was, but he wasn’t Jon, and Ryan childishly wanted to keep on hating him for a little while longer.

So naturally, with the run of luck Ryan was having, he made it all the way to the entrance hall before running into both of them. They were discussing something on the ground floor – Ryan blamed his haste for not having heard their voices – but Jon was facing his way, and he spotted Ryan the moment he stepped out onto the landing.

“Ryan,” he called, before Ryan had the chance to draw back out of sight. When he smiled, his whole face lit up with it. He held out a hand like he expected Ryan to take it from half a room away, and said, “I hope you’re feeling well again?”

“Yes, thank you,” Ryan made himself say, even though he was sure he had once again gone pale, and he almost stumbled on the first step downwards. He couldn’t look away from Mr. Walker. Because he had to be Mr. Walker, didn’t he, with those dark curls on his head and that curve to his nose. There were differences to Jon's appearance, of course, the most obvious being Mr. Walker’s superior height, but Ryan was under no illusions that the two were anything but related.

Overall, Mr. Walker struck Ryan as a tall, distinguished gentleman who certainly gave the impression of having raised three adult sons, some of them with families of their own. There was grey scattered throughout his dark hair and at his temples, and his eyes were the sort of hard that a gaggle of squabbling boys would not dare disobey.

Oh, his smile was Jon’s, without a doubt, and his features not unkind, but Ryan couldn’t help but shy away from the stern set of his shoulders. He doubted this man would be happy to find out about the dog squirrelled away in his pigpen.

Jon’s smile, however, did not falter as he ushered Ryan forward. “Do you have a minute to spare for your fiancé, Father?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Walker said, appraising Ryan with a critical eye. “How do you do, Mr. Ross?”

“Very well, thank you,” Ryan said. “And yourself?”

“Very well also, thank you for asking,” Mr. Walker replied. It was almost a little painful, how stiffly they conversed, especially after Jon’s friendly, informal speech.

Jon, who was looking between them with an unhappy little tilt to his mouth. When he spoke, however, his tone was entirely pleasant and neutral. “Ryan, I was just mentioning to Father perhaps going out to inspect the barn, and I remember I never did show it to you on our first tour of the grounds.” He smiled at the man. “Perhaps you’d like to show him, Father?”

Mr. Walker replied, “It would hardly be proper, without a chaperone."

Ryan ducked his head at the dismissal, and so almost missed Jon’s tight-lipped frown of disapproval.

“I would come with you, of course,” he said. “Father?”

But the man, to Ryan’s admitted relief, shook his head. “Not today, Jon. Mr. Ross and I will have plenty of time to become acquainted with one another after the wedding.”

Jon’s lips drew a little more tightly together. “But surely the fresh air will do you good?” he pressed.

Ryan turned his head to the side ever so slightly to hide his scowl. Jon was a good son, he thought a little bitterly, so concerned for his father’s happiness.

Mr. Walker sighed and clapped a hand down on Jon’s shoulder. “I’ve had enough fresh air to last me until spring, son. I’d much rather have breakfast, hear what you have to say about the business.”

Jon nodded, still looking a little pinched, and Mr. Walker turned towards the parlor. He had already gone several steps when he asked, over his shoulder, “Will you join us, Mr. Ross?”

“Perhaps a little later,” Ryan found himself saying.

He told himself that he was glad when they departed without him, although Jon did turn back to send him a worried look. _Jon_ did.

But he was glad, because he still had his dog to tend to, and with Mr. Walker here now and the wedding guests arriving soon, Ryan would have to figure something out. For now, he sneaked off to the kitchen, waiting around the corner until he heard Cook head up to the parlor to set out breakfast before he slipped into the room. There was ground beef in a bowl, most likely for a hearty pie, which would do nicely. Ryan scooped a handful into his palm and disappeared as quickly as he could without spilling it all over himself, striding across the grounds with his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Sally, at least, was pleased to see him. He’d worried that she might be cross with him for his abrupt departure what seemed like ages ago, but instead she appeared even more ecstatic to see him than usual. She strained against the rope that kept her contained, rising up onto her hind legs like that might bring her closer to him, and wagged her tail so hard her entire body seemed to sway with it. The sight even managed to coax a brief smile out of Ryan, who leaned down to scratch at her ears and neck and pat her side and subject himself to her damp, enthusiastic greeting. It took only a moment before he gave in and dropped to the ground, jarring his knees painfully, and hugged her as though his life depended on it. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friendly, unbiased face until she was there, nudging his shoulder with her nose concernedly, and he clutched at her neck and buried his fingers in her fur as tightly as she would let him.

He didn’t hear the footsteps approaching the pen, but he heard quite clearly the door swinging open, and when he spied Jon’s boots in the triangle of light just inside the doorway, he turned away and buried his face in Sally’s neck.

He had the feeling Jon might have wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t. Instead, there was the sound of his feet coming closer, the rustling of hay underneath his soles. Ryan didn’t let himself look.

“She’s a beauty,” Jon offered after a moment.

It was perhaps meant to soothe, but it only made Ryan turn away and shake his head, because she wasn’t. She wasn’t, but Jon was the kind of man who would say that, who would _think_ that, and the thought that Ryan was to give his heart to someone like him and then not get to have him after all, that thought burned in his heart and throat and eyes.

“Won’t you talk to me?” came the plaintive question, and when Ryan couldn’t resist a quick peek, Jon was kneeling in the hay no three feet away, watching him with a sorrowful expression. “Please. I know something’s wrong, and I. I worry.”

Oh, that, that just wasn’t fair. Ryan turned his face away again, back to the dog, and waited with bated breath, but Jon showed no signs of wanting to leave. In fact, he seemed willing to wait quite patiently, and in the end, it was Ryan who broke the silence stretching out between them.

“I’ve been calling her Sally,” he admitted, into the dog’s fur. “I think she likes it.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Jon said with a hopeful smile.

Ryan, though he tried, couldn’t keep his gaze away for long. Jon was watching him earnestly, somehow not looking angry at all, although he had to be, didn’t he, with Ryan acting as ridiculously and hysterically as he did.

“It’s good that you tied her up,” Jon said, inching a little closer. His hand gently stroked over her muzzle, and Ryan, who had not realized how near Jon had come, shied away. “Dogs, especially wild ones, tend to attack pigs when left to their own devices. So that’s good.”

Ryan bowed his head. “I didn't know that,” he admitted. He didn’t even want to imagine the fall-out should he have forgotten, and something would have happened to the pigs. He would have been lucky if they’d only put Sally down. “I’m sorry,” he added, in a whisper.

“It’s fine,” Jon said. His hand crept up to cover Ryan’s on Sally’s neck. “She’s tied up, and nothing happened. It’s fine.”

Ryan looked up, for just a brief moment, before the sorrowful expression on Jon’s face made him turn his face away again.

“Ryan,” Jon said quietly. He curled his fingers around Ryan’s, taking them away from the comforting sensation of Sally’s fur against his skin. “Won’t you tell me what’s been bothering you?” he asked, somehow plaintive and coaxing all at once. When Ryan made to pull away, Jon caught Ryan’s hand in both of his. “Please?” he pressed. “Whatever I’ve done to upset you so, I’d like to find some way to make it right.”

“There is nothing you did,” Ryan assured him. He tugged hopefully on his hand, but Jon held fast.

“Please,” he insisted. “Please, Ryan. Tell me what I’ve done to you.” He wasn’t smiling anymore, earnest and miserable instead, and Ryan shook his head.

_I can’t be your stepfather,_ he thought, suddenly and with startling clarity. He couldn’t. Even if Jon and his brothers weren’t all older than he was, and even if his relationship with Mr. Walker’s two older sons wasn’t going to be uncomfortable at best, there was no way he was ever going to be able to look at Jon and see anyone other than the man he’d thought he was going to marry.

And that was just something he was going to have to live with.

“It’s alright,” he said, forcing a smile. It felt cheap and fake, stretched tight across his cheekbones, but it lightened the frown on Jon’s features, so perhaps it was enough. “I’m just a little nervous about the wedding, I’m afraid,” he said. “The fitting must have brought it home for me, that’s all.”

If Jon had any doubts about the truth of Ryan’s explanation, they seemed to be swallowed by the endless relief flooding his expression. Relief, and perhaps a little wistfulness. “Oh,” he said, and shuffled a little closer. “You really mustn’t be, Ryan,” he said earnestly. “My father is a good man, I promise. He’ll treat you as well as a husband ought.”

Ryan smiled again, and the expression that came a little more easily this time. It still hurt. “That’s good to know,” he said. “I hope I’ll have another chance to interact with him – make up for a less than favorable first impression.”

“Oh, he understands,” Jon assured him quickly. “He knows how nerve wracking this all must be for you.”

“I’m sure,” Ryan said, still smiling, still forcing his face into an expression it simply didn’t want to show. “And I’m sure I’ll be fine. I will be fine. I just need a little time, that’s all.”

Jon nodded slowly. “Cook has saved you some food from dinner last night,” he said after a moment. “You must be quite hungry. You should eat.”

Ryan was more nauseous than anything, but that could well be from a lack of sustenance, so he shrugged one shoulder and sent Jon a quick smile.

Jon smiled back, rising to his feet with a quiet groan. Once upright, he held his hand out for Ryan to take, and quickly hid his hurt when Ryan pushed himself to his feet without accepting his help. Instead, he linked his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet while Ryan brushed off the stalks of hay clinging to his body. There were a handful attached to Jon's knees and the hem of his coat as well, but Jon didn’t particularly seem to mind.

“Perhaps you’d like some company?” he asked hopefully. “While you eat?”

As much as it hurt, as much as Ryan wanted to say yes, yes, of course, anything, he made himself shake his head. “No, thank you,” he said, and then looked determinedly away from Jon’s falling expression. Instead, he leaned to the side just a little to scratch at the crown of Sally’s head. “I’ll be fine on my own,” he said quietly, and even though the words were directed at Jon, he didn’t think either of them knew who he was trying to convince.

 

Cook had left indeed left out a plate for him, roast and potatoes and long green beans, no doubt in honor of Mr. Walker’s return. Ryan served himself the cold leftovers and took them over to the table where he folded himself onto a bench and picked up a knife and fork. He could do this. It did not matter that the knife’s blade screeched across the plate because his hands were shaking, did not matter in the slightest. He was perfectly all right, and it was not hard to swallow, and he would marry Mr. Walker and one day he would laugh about how foolish he had been.

Between one bite and the next tears were rolling down his cheeks, his mouthful of spuds sticking painfully in the back of his throat. He swallowed with difficulty, the food suddenly too much for his mouth, and scrubbed angrily at his eyes. It didn’t help, probably only made things worse, but he did it again, and then pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

He sat like that for a long, long moment, until heavy footsteps in the hall had him looking away. He wiped hastily at his eyes, erasing the most damning of the evidence, but he did not doubt that he still looked like he had, in fact, been crying.

A moment later, Cook swept into the room, her arms full of carrot greens, or something of the sort. She hesitated when they made eye contact, but then she continued with her task, laying the greens out on the counter without a word.

Ryan swiped his sleeve over his eyes again in the short reprieve he was granted. A moment later, Cook set a glass of water down at his elbow.

Ryan managed a croak of acknowledgment, if not an actual thank you, which made the woman shake her head while she dug out her large pot.

She set it down on the stove with a heavy _clunk_ , hesitated, and then turned to face him with a sigh. “I’ve seen you do some silly things, Master Ross, but crying over the potatoes is the strangest one yet.”

Ryan chuckled at that, despite everything, which turned into another flood of tears. “The potatoes are very,” he took a breath, “very good.”

“I know that,” Cook said, shaking her head. “So why are you crying, boy?”

Ryan shook his head at that, a quick, emphatic refusal. No one could ever know. If word should get out, and it always did, then the fall-out would be tremendous. Mr. Walker’s new spouse in love with his stepson, no, it would ruin the Walkers and the Rosses and everyone the Rosses had ever married into.

“It’s stupid,” he said. He half expected her to laugh, to agree, to say that Ryan himself was silly, so that was hardly a surprise.

Instead, she leaned her muscled forearms on the worktable and peered closely at him. “Is it?” she asked quietly.

Ryan blinked at her uncertainly, which was unlikely to heighten her opinion of him, but he couldn’t help it. “It would be to you,” he finally settled on.

She hummed thoughtfully, and he added, scowling, “I know you think I’m this silly boy, but this is serious. It’s more important than what’s for dinner, or if we’ll have enough jam to last us through the winter. This is my _life_.”

He held her eyes for a moment after that before he let his gaze drop to somewhere around her shoulders, flushing.

But despite his outburst, she merely nodded again. “And are you really prepared to feel like this for the rest of your life?”

“What else can I do?” Ryan burst out, wiping at his eyes again, suddenly angry at his own ridiculous display of emotion. He’d so often been teased in his youth for being so reluctant to show emotion, in either expression or voice, and now that it was proper it seemed like all ability to keep himself in check had escaped him.

She shook her head at that, as if she had ever found herself in such a dreadful situation, and turned away. She rummaged around the cabinets for a moment and then returned with a knife and a bowl full of potatoes. “Here,” she said. “If you’re going to be a coward about things, you might as well make yourself useful. It’ll make you feel better.”

Even as he scowled, Ryan picked up the knife and one of the roots. He very much hated to admit it, but as it turned out, she was right.

 

The barking did not even register at first; not until it grew louder and even more frantic did he notice it, and then it had his heart pounding in a frenzied rhythm. He dropped his knife, not even caring about the way the bowl toppled, and ran for the door, thundered up the stairs and along the corridor. The front door was open with Jon and his father standing just outside, but Ryan flew past them because Ophis had Sally by the rope Ryan had used to tie her down, and she was snapping and growling desperately at him, trying to pull away.

When Ophis saw Ryan coming, he stepped back, opened his mouth to possibly warn him away, but Ryan, already reaching for the rope, didn’t let him.

“You’re going to hurt her,” he snapped, and yanked the make-shift lead away from him.

The man’s eyes widened, but Ryan didn’t take the time to contemplate what his reaction might mean. Instead he knelt down on the cold ground, next to his dog which immediately crowded close, and threw his arms around her.

“It’s alright, girl,” he whispered. All Hell would break loose in just a moment, he was sure of it, but for now, everything was alright.

Sure enough, a moment later Mr. Walker’s voice cut sharply across the silent drive. “What is this?” he demanded. “Mr. Ross, what is going on?”

“You can’t hurt her,” Ryan said, somehow found the courage to say. “You can’t hurt her, she didn’t do anything.”

“You were the one who dragged this creature onto my grounds?” Mr. Walker demanded.

“She’s harmless,” Ryan said, over the growl she let out when Jon tried to take a step closer.

“This is unbelievable,” Mr. Walker said. “We invite you into our home, extend you every courtesy, and you respond by dragging in this – this mutt, this _stray_? Who knows what diseases it has! We’re just lucky she hasn’t attacked any of us, or the livestock.”

“She isn’t dangerous,” Ryan objected, too timidly to achieve much with it.

“Not dangerous?” Mr. Walker shook his head. “I was told you were intelligent and mature for your age, but clearly I was misinformed.”

“Thank you, Ophis,” Jon interjected. “You may go about your business.”

The man bobbed his head and, after a quick look in Ryan’s direction that Ryan couldn’t read, strode off to God knew where. Probably anywhere that wasn’t here. Ryan could relate.

The interlude seemed to have calmed Mr. Walker a little, at least. In Ryan’s eyes, that did not make him much less frightening. Now, his voice was low but most displeased, and his expression was set with so much disdain that not even Cook could have kept up with him.

“We will get rid of it immediately,” he said coldly, as though the words weren’t enough to just about stop Ryan’s heart. “There have been too many near misses already.”

Ryan, Sally’s head cradled against his chest, stared up at him at a loss. Calling Sally dangerous seemed to him to be on par with accusing Ryan of being a level-headed individual. “Nothing happened,” he protested unsteadily.

Rather than appease him, however, his interjection appeared to only stoke Mr. Walker’s anger. “Is that how you make decisions, boy?” he barked. “Nothing may have happened, but it very well could have, and still might.”

Ryan flinched at that, looking away, and Mr. Walker laughed. It wasn’t a very nice sound.

“Trust me, my boy: That dog is not the only thing you have to worry about.”

“Father,” Jon said, clearly disapproving.

But Mr. Walker shook his head. “No, Jon,” he said. “I may have let you and your brothers convince me that marrying anew was a good idea, but I can think of little I’d like less than to marry this _child_.”

Ryan, to his horror, could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He swallowed them down determinedly, refusing to cry and prove himself as young as Mr. Walker accused him of being, but he couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. Anything in his defense.

Instead, it was Jon who said, sharply, “ _Father_.”

“And you,” Mr. Walker said, whirling on Jon. “You knew about this.”

“I did,” Jon said, with an angry sort of calm. “And if you’d bothered to be here, you would have known about it as well.”

Mr. Walker drew back at that. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Jon said, “that Ryan – Mr. Ross has been _alone_ at Cavelley for over a month. There is nothing to occupy him here. Can you really blame him for wanting a companion?”

“I thought you’d said you’d written to him,” Mr. Walker said, displeasure transforming into confusion.

“I did.” Jon sighed tiredly. “As much as I could, but that is hardly enough for anyone besides you, Father, and, begging your pardon, sir, it really should have been your task.”

Mr. Walker narrowed his eyes. “I was on the hunt, Jon.”

“And yet you managed to write to _me_.” Jon made an aborted gesture. He looked tired, so tired now. “Which begs the question: Why were you gone at all?”

“The hunt, Jon. As I know you know. I didn’t raise a deaf son, or a stupid one, so don’t play games with me now.”

Jon hunched his shoulders. “Yes, I know.” He sighed. “But why didn’t you come back?”

Ryan turned to hide his face in Sally’s fur again. He couldn’t watch this, not with the way Mr. Walker now seemed to be growing angry with Jon instead.

“Son,” he said sharply, “you are well aware of the accident. Caldwell’s leg was broken. I tried to return for Mr. Ross’ arrival, but there wasn’t much I could have done under the circumstances, was there?”

“Oh, but you certainly didn’t try very hard, did you?” Jon snapped back.

His father let out an exasperated noise. “What would you have had me to, Jon? Walked?”

“You could have sent for a different coachman. It was clear from the start that Caldwell would need quite some time to recover.”

Mr. Walker shook his head sharply. “He was going to be fine. It was hardly-“

“Worth the trouble?” Jon asked.

Ryan risked another glance at that. Mr. Walker appeared dumbfounded at the moment, but rallied quickly, a frown accompanying his words. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Jon,” he said. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that my coachman breaking his leg was somehow indicative of my feelings towards Mr. Ross. It was an accident. Nobody could have foretold that it would happen.”

“But the possibility existed,” Jon spat, “and you knew that.” He breathed deep, nostrils flaring. “You knew, when you went to the highlands, that there was a very real chance that you wouldn’t be back in time to welcome Ryan to our estate, but that wasn’t enough to stop you.” He took another deep breath. “If you truly cared about Ryan and Ryan’s well-being, you wouldn’t have gone on the trip in the first place.”

Even Ryan knew that this was hardly an appropriate way to speak to one’s father, but he knew neither Jon nor Mr. Walker well enough to tell if Jon had gone too far. In any case, he buried his face in the dog’s fur and his fingers as well, and hoped to whoever might listen that Jon wouldn’t get himself into trouble over this, as well.

It was silent for a moment. Mr. Walker’s tone, when he spoke, was less than impressed. “You would do well to watch your tone around me, my boy,” he said coldly, and Ryan heard Jon suck in a sharp breath.

“Yes, Father,” he said, markedly quieter now. “I apologize for my tone; it was hardly seemly. However, I still stand by what I said: Ryan has managed to make himself feel at home here despite both of us failing in our duty as hosts, and it would be nothing short of cruel to deprive him of that.”

More silence followed his words. Ryan took the chance to peer up at the pair of them again, only to find both of them looking back. An immediate, hot flush spread over his features. He had to look ridiculous like this, kneeling in the dirt and clutching at the dog like one would a stuffed toy.

He met Jon’s eyes, no doubt looking panicked and entirely too disheveled, and something in Jon’s eyes softened.

“Let’s not shout this out in the open like fishwives,” he said, wrapping his hand gently around his father’s arm and urging him towards the door. When Ryan made to rise and obediently follow, he shook his head behind his father’s stiff back and held up his hand, silently telling him to stay. Feeling not unlike a chastised dog, Ryan drew back. Jon and his father were upset with him, and he never wanted to look Ophis in the eye again as long as he lived, but at least there was still Sally, ducked into his side as though she was at fault for this whole mess, and not Ryan’s own stupidity.

So he waggled her ear gently back and forth, surprising himself when he managed a laugh. “Don’t worry, girl,” he said. “We don’t need Jon to run away together.”

It was perhaps a little too optimistic a statement, considering the mere thought of having to give up Jon and spend his days with Mr. Walker instead, hurt. The thought of not being with Jon hurt. But apparently Jon wasn’t to be his, because what Ryan had thought were perhaps indications that Jon might be developing feelings for him were nothing but the friendly approaches of a man towards his new, uncertain stepfather. And if he couldn’t have Jon, then what – besides the ruin of his entire family – was to stop him from taking to the winds?

With a heartfelt sigh, Ryan rose to his feet to relieve his aching knees and brushed his hand over the top of his head. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go wait on the stairs ‘till they announce our doom, shall we?”

The steps were cold, but it wasn’t as if Ryan could go anywhere else, with Jon and his father just inside the front door and Cook no doubt just waiting to laugh at him at the back. So he curved himself over Sally’s ribcage when she settled down next to him, drawing on the heat she had to offer, and waited.

He couldn’t hear any voices, so maybe they had withdrawn to one of the other rooms, but Ryan thought it was more likely that they simply didn’t want Ryan to hear what they had to say. Because God forbid he have the opportunity to explain himself, he thought angrily, and then immediately flushed at his presumption. He’d already created more than enough trouble for the Walkers – who was he to strut around and ask for even more?

To distract himself, he leaned in and crooned a song into Sally’s twitching ear, the one about the boy who goes to play in the forest against his mother’s wishes, surviving monsters and beasts and all kinds of frightful creatures only to fall and skin his knees within sight of his house. It had been a favorite of his father’s, back when he could still be persuaded to sing his only son to sleep, and back before Ryan realized that perhaps he was better off avoiding his father’s attention by the time the sun had set. By the time the bottle of whiskey had been broken open.

Sally twitched underneath him, and Ryan smiled sadly and pressed his face into her fur. Whatever else happened, and whatever else they might decide to do to him, Ryan would not let them put down Sally. She hadn’t done anything, hadn’t hurt anyone, and there was no reason for any of them to do anything to her. They couldn’t. Ryan would bear any beating they might decide he had earned, but he’d sooner run away than let them hurt his dog.

“Don’t worry, girl,” he said. “We’ll live off the bread of the land. Sleep in barns. It’ll be an adventure.” Against all odds, the thought made him smile a little. He could see himself on the road already, nothing but the bundle on his back and his trusty dog by his side. Sure, he’d miss Jon, and he’d never be able to see his father again, but they wouldn’t be able to hurt the one creature who loved him despite everything, and that would have to be enough.

The door slammed shut behind him the way only doors that size could, with a damning clang, sending a rush of adrenaline surging through Ryan’s limbs. When he whirled around, Jon was there, looking older and more tired than Ryan had ever seen him.

He spent a long, silent moment staring down at Ryan and his dog while Ryan stared back. He wasn’t sure what was showing on his face at the moment, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been very dignified, because it wasn’t very long at all before Jon shook his head. With a heavy sigh, he dropped down onto the stones next to Ryan and scrubbed a hand over his face. “That did not go very well,” he said, which was quite an understatement as far as Ryan was concerned.

“Is he very angry?” he asked quietly.

Jon shook his head, although his guilty frown was less than reassuring. “He doesn’t understand,” he said. “That’s all.”

That was all. But wasn’t it too much already? If Mr. Walker couldn’t understand Ryan’s need to have a friendly face in his life, just one, how was this to ever work out?

“I won’t give her up,” Ryan said fiercely, glaring at Jon as much as he dared. He wasn’t really in a position to make demands, but he was also serious, and he wasn’t going to back down until they realized it.

“No one will take your dog from you,” Jon said, sounding almost scandalized. Which was nice. It made Ryan feel a little better.

“We could take her out to the horses,” Jon said quietly. “She’ll be safe there, and warm, and she won’t be a threat to anyone.”

Ryan desperately wanted to protest that she hadn’t been a threat to the pigs, either, but Jon looked concerned and earnest, and it wasn’t as though Ryan knew very much about the matter. So he said, “Thank you,” instead, and drew an indulgent Sally closer.

Jon sighed. He reached out his hand like he was going to rest it on Ryan’s back in reassurance, but in the end, all he did was lay it on his own knee and sigh. “No one will try to take your dog from you, Ryan, I promise.”

“He hates me,” Ryan said.

“No,” Jon replied immediately, voice going low and soft. “No, Ryan, he doesn’t.”

Ryan gave him a bleak look. “Why am I even here, Jon?” he asked. “I understand that he’s lonely, but he doesn’t want to remarry, I can tell that much. Anyone can tell that much.”

Jon managed a smile. “He’ll warm to you, Ryan, don’t worry. He’s a little old-fashioned, that’s all.”

Hugging an unresisting Sally even tighter, Ryan shook his head. “How can he?” he asked, and under different circumstances he might have cared how plaintive he sounded, but it wasn’t as though the situation could really get any worse. “I read revolutionary texts and daydream about running away with gypsies. I’m younger than his youngest child, Jon. How could he ever take me seriously as a spouse?”

If asked what he expected Jon’s reaction to be, Ryan most definitely would not have predicted the truth: That Jon would lean over, arm settling around Ryan’s shoulders, and press a warm, gentle kiss to his temple.

The moment was over before Ryan had the chance to damningly melt into the touch.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said immediately, drawing back as far as his seated position would allow. “That was hardly appropriate, and I apologize.”

Ryan shook his head, more out of confusion than anything, a gesture which only served to make Jon retreat even farther. “You should speak to Ophis, about what to do with Sally,” he said. He got up then, abruptly, and Ryan immediately missed the warmth of his body next to Ryan’s.

“Speak to Ophis,” he said again, without meeting Ryan’s eyes, almost stumbling over a step in his haste to get away.

Ryan watched him go with a heavy heart. The door smashed shut between them, on Jon’s retreating heels, and Ryan allowed himself a moment to bury his face in his hands and just breathe a little before he made himself get up and seek out the groundskeeper.

 

Ophis was digging up roots around the side of the house, hat tucked low into his eyes and, Ryan suspected, hiding. He looked up when Ryan headed for him with two fingers hooked underneath Sally’s make-shift collar. For a moment, he looked inexplicably guilty, before he set down the spade and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Ross?”

When Ryan had explained, he nodded quickly. “I have an idea where to put her for now,” he said, and led them over to the open kitchen door. Ryan balked at that, unwilling to subject himself to Cook and her sharp tongue right now, but Ophis didn’t head inside. Instead, he freed a large iron hook from the weeds growing against the side of the house. He held his hand out for Sally’s leash, which Ryan relinquished after a moment’s hesitation without letting her move away from his side, and then fastened it loosely to the metal.

“There you are,” he said. “Your girl will be just fine.”

The expression on Ryan’s face had to be unflatteringly doubtful, peering at Sally tied to a hook at the side of the house, but Ophis didn’t seem offended.

“I’ll build her a hut for now,” he said. “That way, she’ll be nice and dry until we can figure out something permanent.”

He hesitated a moment. Ryan found himself looking over curiously, and so caught the quick glance Ophis sent his way. Then he said, with his eyes fixed firmly on the knot he was securing, “I didn’t realize she had to be yours until it was already too late.” He made an aborted gesture. “If I had, I would have approached the matter differently.”

He was silent after that. It was only when he fidgeted a little, the end of the rope still in his hands, that Ryan realized with a start that the man was waiting on Ryan to absolve him of his crimes. The thought struck him as utterly ridiculous for a moment, before he realized with a sharp jolt that, should Mr. Walker still want to marry him after all this, Ryan was going to be master of the household – and Ophis’ superior. He was going to be in charge of Cavelley Hall. It was an odd thought, and not entirely pleasant, but Ryan had to concede that it could be a lot, lot worse.

“It’s alright,” he said slowly. “I understand.”

Relief spread over Ophis’ features, and Ryan couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think they might… do something to her? Jon said… But what if they change their minds, and they tell you to get rid of her?” He stopped himself there, not wanting to sound like any more of a child than he already did, and looked down at his hands. That they might do something to her behind his back – it was a thought too awful to contemplate.

Ophis gave him a serious look. “Master Ryan,” he said. “I swear to you, on my life, that I will not hurt your dog, or let anyone else hurt her. I won’t, and if anyone tells me to, I’ll take her with me to the groundskeeper’s cabin. If she’s ever not here anymore, you can find her there, I promise.”

Ryan, up to now, had not known such a cabin even existed, but Ophis was looking at him with a kind, patient expression he must have learned from Jon, considering the way it settled Ryan’s unsteady nerves.

“Alright,” he said quietly. He didn’t let go of Sally’s improvised collar quite yet, though, and after a silent moment, Ophis reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He didn’t try to say anything else, which Ryan was thankful for, but he also didn’t abandon him to his doubts. Ryan appreciated that, as well.

Sally wriggled away from him then, sniffing after a beetle in the grass. Her tail wagged cautiously for the first time since that morning, and that, more than anything, made Ryan say, “How will he ever be able to stand me, if he can’t even tolerate her?”

He flushed as soon as the words were out, both at how inappropriate it was to go seeking comfort from the servants, and also at how young they made him sound, but Ophis didn’t look at him with pity in his eyes.

Instead he hummed thoughtfully. “Mr. Walker is a good man, Mr. Ross,” he said. He was quiet for a moment before he added, “They both are.”

Hesitantly, Ryan reached out to pet his dog again. “Do you think,” he began quietly. Then he shook himself, because asking such questions at all was highly inappropriate, let alone from the staff. But Ophis was still watching him openly, without censure, even though he’d been there, and even Jon had looked a little exasperated with Ryan, in the end. So he sighed, and said, voice low, “Is Jon always like this?”

“It’s not really my place to say,” Ophis said.

Ryan gave him a pleading look, and he tilted his head, considering. When he spoke, the words came slowly. “Master Walker is usually kind and affectionate, if that’s what you mean.” He hesitated, long enough that Ryan thought he would say no more. But then he added, not meeting Ryan’s eyes, “But I’ve yet to see him act as affectionate and concerned with anyone else.”

For one long, dreadful moment, Ryan thought he was going to cry again. He looked away, and swallowed, and thankfully the feeling subsided, but his voice was still shaky when he said, “Do you think Mr. Walker would talk to me?”

Whatever Ophis had been about to say, Ryan would never know, because that was when Cook appeared in the doorway and put her hands on her hips. She looked down at the pair of them, crouched on the ground, and shook her head. “Well, boy, you’re never going to find out unless you try.”

 

It wasn’t dark quite yet, but the corridors were still gloomy enough to both match Ryan’s mood and make it even worse. He tried not to see it as a sign, though – not after Cook and Ophis had practically manhandled him out of the kitchen, and probably followed him discreetly up to Mr. Walker’s sitting room.

There was a shimmer of light underneath the door, so Mr. Walker was indeed inside, only a single wall away, most likely deciding Ryan’s fate at this very moment. It was enough to make even the bravest of heroes run far away, but Ryan reminded himself sternly that he had to do this.

This was for a good cause. This was for Jon.

He blew out a heavy breath before he reached out. The handle was heavy in his hand, and the door creaked, high-pitched and painful, when Ryan pushed it open.

There was only dim light inside, originating from a gas lamp resting on a small side table near the center of the room. Mr. Walker was sitting on a chaise-lounge in the circle of its weak glow, a stack of correspondence on the table at his elbow, an unfolded missive in his hands. He looked at Ryan over the top of his reading glasses.

“Mr. Ross,” he said, sounding both surprised and not-quite-pleasantly surprised. “What can I do for you?”

Ryan took a steadying breath. “Might I have a word?” he asked, as firmly as he could, his voice still damningly unsteady.

Mr. Walker laid his paper down on the table. “Of course,” he said. “Let me just call in Jon-”

He reached for the servants’ bell, stilling only when Ryan took an aborted step forwards and shook his head. “Please don’t,” he said.

Mr. Walker gave him a careful look. “It is highly inappropriate for us to be alone together, Mr. Ross, as I do hope you’re aware.”

Ryan nodded quickly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I know that, I do. Just – please. What I want to tell you concerns Jon, and I think you should hear it first.”

Mr. Walker’s dark eyes hardened at that. He didn’t say anything, though, merely crossed his legs at the ankles and motioned for Ryan to sit in one of two armchairs across from the sofa. Ryan obeyed, swallowing, keenly aware of the dirt coating his knees and the hem of his pants from behaving like an ill-bred fool all day. He rubbed his damp palms over his thighs, glancing up and then quickly away again when Mr. Walker raised expectant eyebrows.

“Speak your mind, then,” Mr. Walker said into the silence.

“Yes, sir,” Ryan mumbled. He waved a hand, and then quickly stilled when Mr. Walker’s eyes followed the movement pointedly. So he folded them in his lap and said, quite formally, “I’d like to extend an apology for my behavior.”

Mr. Walker’s brows drew together, though Ryan had the feeling that the man kept his face as blank as possible entirely for Ryan’s benefit. “I do believe it can be understood, given the circumstances,” he said. “Jon was quite adamant that perhaps I ought to have considered your uprooting when making my decision to go traveling, and so certain behaviors may be excused.”

Personally, Ryan thought it wasn’t a very good sign that someone actually had to go and point this out to him, but that wasn’t his place to say. Overall, he felt it wasn’t much by way of an apology, but Ryan suspected that it was nevertheless intended as one, and gladly took it.

Still, he shook his head. “No. My behavior was unacceptable, and I am aware of that. However, that is not what I wanted to address with you today.”

Mr. Walker’s frown darkened, but he didn’t object and didn’t ask, merely indicated for Ryan to go on.

Ryan took a deep breath, and then another one when that proved fruitless. “You don’t want to marry me,” he blurted out, before he had the chance to grow even more nervous and tongue-tied. Mr. Walker raised his eyebrows, and he rushed on to add, “I know that’s not proper to say, but it’s obvious. With your wife, and I’m clearly not what you wanted, if you wanted someone at all, and…” and there he trailed off, helplessly. “And I think I can say with confidence that you do not wish to marry me.”

Mr. Walker tilted his head in a gesture that was startlingly similar to something Jon might do. “What is it you propose we do, then?” he asked, leaning back against the backrest and settling a curious hand against his chin. “I assume you aren’t simply here to point out the obvious.”

“No,” Ryan stammered, cursing his tendency to fluster so easily. “No, that wasn’t my intention.”

He looked away, and took a steadying breath, which gave Mr. Walker enough time to ask, “Do you want to cancel the marriage agreement?”

“Not exactly,” Ryan said. The idea that had, desperately, taken hold in his mind was unheard of, unthinkable, but Ryan had spent so much time reading of revolutionaries and adventurers – perhaps it was now his time to be brave.

“I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” he said to the hands he had folded in his lap, rather than to Mr. Walker. He wasn’t _that_ brave. “You see, when I arrived here, it was with very little information, and… and I began my stay here under the impression that it was Jon – your son that I was intended to marry.” He thought he heard Mr. Walker take a sharp breath, but couldn’t bring himself to look up. “It was a ludicrous notion, of course, considering the time we spent alone together, but the seed took hold nonetheless, and I became - _fond_ of Jon, over time.”

He did look up at that, at Mr. Walker’s blank, expressionless face, and could barely hold eye contact for more than a moment before he turned to concentrate on the writing desk in the corner instead. “I realize this is incredibly inappropriate, and I will understand if you send me home to my father immediately. However, now that I’ve learned that you have very little desire to actually be married again, and considering the way I feel about your son… And I have reason to believe that Jon’s feelings towards me are not entirely innocent either, so maybe – I would be most willing to stay at Cavelley and keep you all the company you could desire, but under the circumstances, perhaps it would.” He took a hitched breath. “Perhaps it would be more suitable for everyone if I were to keep you entertained in the position of a son-in-law rather than a spouse.”

Mr. Walker raised a deceptively mild-mannered eyebrow. “In essence, Mr. Ross, you wish to replace me with my son?”

Ryan, flushing at the blunt delivery, tried desperately to think of a phrasing that would sound less terrible, less scandalous. But his usually so eloquent mind failed him, so in the end, he had no choice but to meet Mr. Walker’s eyes and reply with a simple, “Yes.”

“I see.” Mr. Walker narrowed his eyes. “And have you and Jonathan addressed your affections?” he asked, pleasantly enough, though Ryan could hear the steel underneath.

“No!” he said quickly. “Nothing of the sort, I promise. Jon knows nothing about my affections. He may even only see me as a potential spouse to his father,” and oh, that thought hurt, “but I cannot in good conscience keep this from you. From both of you.”

Mr. Walker’s expression shifted at that, though Ryan was too apprehensive to dare assume it was lightening. It was probably a good thing, because Mr. Walker’s tone was utterly neutral when he said, “Considering that this concerns him as well, perhaps we ought to consult Jon on the matter.”

This was the moment Ryan had been dreading, but there was no way around it, so he swallowed against his pounding heart and nodded.

Mr. Walker nodded as well, once, and then once again reached for the servant bell. Not too long after, Ophis appeared in the door, gaze glancing over Ryan before he said, “You rang, sir?”

“Would you fetch Jon for us, please?” Mr. Walker said with utter dignity.

Ophis’ eyes flickered to Ryan once again, but he replied with nothing but a deferential, “Right away, sir,” before he disappeared, leaving Ryan and Mr. Walker to sit in ever-expanding silence. It was almost painful, waiting there with nothing to protect him from Mr. Walker’s scrutiny, and it was entirely too long until they heard footsteps in the hall.

There was a knock a moment later, and upon Mr. Walker’s call, Jon poked his head in the door. He looked taken aback at seeing the two of them all alone, but rallied quickly, coming to stand by to the unoccupied armchair next to Ryan’s and folding his hands in front of him. “You sent for me, Father?”

His father picked up the cup of tea waiting on the side table. “Why don’t you take a seat?” He indicated the chair with the flat end of his spoon.

Jon cast a quick, uneasy look at Ryan without meeting his eyes before he sank down at the very edge of the cushion. After a moment, he settled his hands on the armrests, but he didn’t relax.

Mr. Walker stirred his tea slowly, maddeningly slowly. The clink of the spoon against the cup was incredibly loud in the quiet room. “It has come to my attention,” he said slowly, “that there have been some unforeseen developments in my absence. Developments that will have drastic influences on the future of this family, as well as the marriage agreement I have entered into with the elder Mr. Ross.” He looked up sharply, causing Jon to shrink back. “Would you know anything on the matter, Jon?”

To Ryan’s surprise, and dawning delight, Jon bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said. “Ryan. You don’t have to worry, I promise. I promise – I swear I will not let my inappropriate feelings come between us.”

Mr. Walker sipped his tea so very slowly before he set the cup down. “I suspected as much,” he said, making Jon duck his head. He cut a quick glance at Ryan with just a hint of triumph in his eyes, though none of it showed in his voice when he addressed Jon once again.

“So you have developed affections for young Mr. Ross?” he asked, and Ryan’s heart began pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest.

“Yes,” Jon said slowly, uncertainly, looking up once again. “Is that not why you asked me here, Father?” His gaze darted to Ryan but didn’t stay, skittering away while Jon’s cheeks colored.

“It isn’t,” Mr. Walker said calmly. He looked at Ryan once more. “Actually, I asked you to join us because Ryan had concerns about certain developing feelings of his own.”

“Oh?” Jon said on an exhale. He looked up at Ryan again, and let himself look this time, eyes soft and warm and nothing at all like they had been previously.

Ryan stared back, aware that his mouth was parted ever so slightly, with nerves and anticipation. His fingers were twisted tightly together, and his heart still pounded merrily away, as though there wasn’t anything to be worried about, as though there was nothing that could still go wrong.

“Yes,” Mr. Walker said. To Ryan’s eternal surprise, a smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. “In fact, I think what Mr. Ross has come to ask me is that I agree to cancel the wedding on Sunday, so that he might be free to pursue his affections.”

He looked pointedly at Jon, who burst into the brightest smile Ryan had yet to see from him. It could barely be contained, though he struggled hard, when he said, “Given the circumstances, Father, I believe that that may be the wisest decision.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mr. Walker said thoughtfully, his smile still in place despite the way Ryan’s stomach dropped sharply at the words.

Not noticing, or perhaps not caring, the man continued, “A cancelled wedding – that will surely set idle tongues wagging. There is no way that you, Jon, or you, Mr. Ross, can exchange your vows six months from now without there being social repercussions, and I will not allow scandal to be heaped upon my youngest son and his family.”

Ryan nodded uncertainly. He just hoped that he was hearing this wrong, that Mr. Walker hadn’t decided to cancel the marriage contract between the Walkers and the Rosses entirely, and declare any future marriages off-limits.

“Father,” Jon added, sounding hesitant as well, and cast a quick look in Ryan’s direction.

Mr. Walker held up a hand to silence him. “However, a cancelled marriage contract in itself is enough to become this season’s gossip, and I’m sure, Mr. Ross, that you’d agree in my assessment that that is not the kind of public exposure your family was hoping for.”

Ryan shook his head in agreement – should this union dissolve, his relatives would be most unhappy –which in turn evoked a thoughtful nod from Mr. Walker.

“Clearly,” he said, “this leads to only one acceptable solution: The wedding must take place as planned, only with Jon as the groom on the Walker side.”

Before Ryan had had a chance to recover from his near heart attack, to comprehend that Mr. Walker had just declared his agreement and that Ryan had, indeed, just received permission and approval to _marry_ Jon, Mr. Walker went on, brisk and business-like, “We will dismiss all talk of the original plans as misunderstandings and slander. Mr. Ross, you must write to your father immediately, informing him of the change. Immediately; the letter must reach him before he departs for Cavelley. Do you understand?”

Ryan nodded hastily. He took a deep, ineffective breath before he chanced a glance at Jon, who returned his gaze with the same helpless elation Ryan could attest to.

Mr. Walker cleared his throat. “You will, of course, no longer be permitted to spend time together without a chaperone,” he said, looking both of them over sternly. “Until the wedding, that is. I will speak to the staff about the planned changes, and answer whatever questions your father might have when he arrives,” he added with a nod in Ryan’s direction. “I assume I don’t have to tell either of you that this is to be kept quiet at all cost.”

Ryan nodded enthusiastically, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jon doing the same.

“Good,” Mr. Walker said, without sounding particularly pleased with the idea. “Then that is seen to. Jon, you will contact the tailor tomorrow. Add some trim to your suit, and casually mention how much you look forward to your wedding, and how hurtful you find these rumors that _I_ would be the one marrying your fiancé. Also mention that Mr. Ophis accompanied you into town that day, as you would never dream of being so risqué as to spend time alone with your intended. There will be talk regardless, but we will not stoop so low as to even respond to such slander. This could be incredibly damaging to you _and_ your brothers, Jon, so I hope you can appreciate how much I’m indulging you with this.”

Jon’s nodded. His hands twitched at his sides, like maybe he wanted to reach out and squeeze Ryan’s fingers. The thought alone left Ryan breathless, and he couldn’t even imagine what it might be like when they were married, when Jon could touch Ryan, tucked away in their bedroom, however he wanted.

Mr. Walker cleared his throat once again, more pointedly this time, making Ryan blush guiltily. The man didn’t comment, thankfully, merely let his gaze sweep from Ryan to Jon and back. “We shall keep out of the spotlight this coming season, just enough to keep the talk at bay without inciting further gossip. Is that something that would be deemed satisfactory by everyone involved?”

Ryan’s nod was eager enough to be considered unseemly, but he was not in any state to care. “I have no desire to return to high society any sooner than I have to,” he said and it was the truth. He’d never been one to delight in flirtatious dancing or gossip, too gangly and uncertain in his movements for the former and too often its subject to be able to appreciate it in the latter case.

Mr. Walker, if one could believe it, smiled at him then. “We shall have ourselves a quiet season out in the country, then,” he said. “And perhaps the both of us being here will be enough to convince Jon of the prudency of letting business be business every once in a while.”

Ryan nodded eagerly once more, which made Mr. Walker quietly laugh against all odds, and even Jon’s noise of protest was made with a smile.

“That’s settled then,” his father decreed. He shook his head. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Ross.”

“Thank you,” Ryan whispered fervently. “Thank you, Mr. Walker. Thank you so much.”

“That’s quite alright,” Mr. Walker said dryly. “You’re very lucky your mother isn’t here to witness this,” he told Jon. “I believe she would have a thing or two to say about this ridiculousness.”

With that, the matter appeared to be dealt with for him. He looked around for his correspondence, brows still furrowed, and Jon used the opportunity to smile at Ryan and shake his head, denying what his father had said.

Mr. Walker located his abandoned letter and then looked up suddenly, asking Jon, “What were you doing before I called for you?”

“Uh, business correspondence,” Jon replied, looking a little taken aback.

Mr. Walker nodded impatiently. “Bring it in here, then. And fetch a book for Mr. Ross. The both of you are going to stay here where I can keep my eye on you. And don’t you dare chatter all night, I would like to read in peace.”

“Yes, Father,” Jon said obediently, smiling so wide it looked almost painful, but Ryan could understand.

Even later, when Mr. Walker was muttering over his letters and Ryan’s face had begun to hurt from grinning for so long, he simply couldn’t stop smiling. The book Jon had brought him lay unopened in his lap. Ryan was too happy to concentrate on other people’s misery right now.

Across the room, Jon was smiling back at him, and, even though he had dipped his feather into the inkwell long ago, he had yet to write a single word.

 

 

 

_Epilogue_

Ryan had only a brief squeeze in warning before a group of beribboned men and women descended upon them like vultures. He thought he felt Mr. Walker laugh, as if the man had guessed Ryan’s thoughts, but he barely had time to breathe as they hugged and kissed Mr. Walker and asked not-quite-pointed questions about his companion, let alone contemplate such possibilities. He did, however, have time to stiffen uncomfortably at the onslaught, and Mr. Walker squeezed his arm once again, in sympathy this time.

“Ladies,” he said grandly. “Gentlemen. May I introduce my son-in-law, Mr. Ryan Walker.” He took care to inform Ryan of everyone else’s names as well, and Ryan restricted himself to smiling and nodding politely.

It was the first major ball Ryan was attending – he’d spent several garden parties sticking close to Jon’s side, but they had been nowhere near as grand, and there hardly seemed to be anyone he recognized from those modest get-togethers here. Instead, there were all these people that he’d never seen who seemed to know all about him, and he would have been a liar had he said that he wasn’t glad to have his father-in-law by his side.

“Jonathan’s husband, yes,” Mr. Walker said. “Oh, about six months now. Yes, he’s been a joy to have around.”

Ryan smiled when a round-faced young man commented favorably on the fabric of his jacket, a little surprised that they had yet to move on from this particular group. Mr. Walker had introduced him to a number of people, but clearly not expected him to converse with any of them. Instead, Ryan had been presented and then tugged along to find a seat, or someone to take Mr. Walker’s gloves, or Jon, who’d been drawn away by his university friends as soon as they’d walked in the door. Mr. Walker made consistent excuses, explaining that Lady Calder was such a bore, or Mr. Ferguson spit when he began to talk about the foxhunt, which he inevitably would. Ryan offered his arm when requested and quietly chuckled his appreciation; Mr. Walker might be taking the blame, but Ryan did not doubt that the limited exposure to prying minds was mainly for his own benefit.

“And look at that flower,” one of the ladies – Mrs. Dalston? – said, nodding at the tulip protruding from Ryan’s buttonhole. “How lovely, to bring back such an antiquated custom.”

Ryan was socially adept enough to know that she wasn’t actually complimenting him, but he didn’t care, because the flower was so much more than mere decoration. Back at the Walker's town house, when they had been standing outside waiting for Mr. Walker to make himself comfortable in the carriage, Jon had pulled him aside and quietly, gently, pinned the yellow tulip to his lapel. “I want to see you smile,” he’s said, even though Ryan was more than aware of the flower’s meaning. “More than anything, I want to see you smile.”

A shy smile had bloomed across Ryan’s face right then and there, even when Mr. Walker’s voice had quickly interrupted their moment, calling for the both of them to hurry up. Jon’s manners were far too well-instilled for him to roll his eyes when he helped Ryan up into the carriage, but Ryan could tell he wanted to. The corners of his eyes had crinkled, part in exasperation but also part fondly, and Ryan had ducked his head and smiled.

Thankfully, Mr. Walker had been more exasperated than angry. To everyone’s relief, the man had warmed considerably to Ryan when he’d discovered that Ryan had extensively studied the classics, and could reference Ovid as comfortably as he could quote Shakespeare. Mr. Walker’s passion for the hunt, as it turned out, was only surpassed by his love for mythology. They’d spent a lively evening trading quotes over a bottle of wine, and when Mr. Walker had declared his need to retire, he’d leaned over and pressed a dry kiss to Ryan’s forehead.

Ryan was not ashamed to admit that he might have walked on clouds for the better part of a week, and he hadn’t even minded Jon and Cook and Ophis all laughing at him about it. It didn’t matter. Perhaps it was silly, to put so much stock in the man’s opinion, but Ryan quite liked the way Mr. Walker smiled at him.

He was doing so now, as well, offering Ryan reassuring expressions whenever he had the chance. No more than was proper, of course, but it served just fine to put Ryan’s mind at ease, and no doubt further roused the curiosity of their onlookers.

A couple of them turned on Ryan next, inquiring with sharp smiles how he liked living at Cavelley so far, where he was from, how he had come to marry into a family as old and prestigious – if not very wealthy – as the Walkers. Ryan smiled helplessly and let Mr. Walker field most of the questions, which he did with a grace Ryan would only admire. Ryan knew he still had a ways to go before he could respond to the prying with similar ease, if he ever learned. But then, and the idea warmed his heart an embarrassing amount, he didn’t need to – Mr. Walker and Ryan’s husband were doing their very best to look out for him.

The thought made him look around, even as he smiled at someone’s tasteful joke. Across the room, Jon was stood with one of his school friends, a man with sandy-colored hair and sharp blue eyes, but he wasn’t paying much attention to whatever Mr. Conrad was saying. Instead, his eyes were entirely on Ryan, and when their gazes caught, a warm smile curled up the corners of his mouth.

Ryan could feel himself beaming in return, far more than was acceptable in such a public setting, but no matter. It would only be this one evening, and then it might well be another year before he saw any of these people again. They might whisper and chat about the way he flaunted his infatuation with his husband, but they couldn’t stop him.

Alternately, they could also simply ask outright, which Ryan hadn’t been expecting from this crowd. But sure enough, a dark-haired, curvy woman leaned forward and asked, voice pitched low, “Have you heard the talk that you, Mr. Walker, were originally the intended husband?” Her eyes flashed, and the rest of the group leaned in closer. “Such a scandalous idea.”

“A most unfortunate rumor,” Mr. Walker said airily. “I will certainly be most unhappy with whoever has been spreading it around so ill-manneredly. Ryan, son, would you be so kind as to fetch me a drink?”

“Of course,” Ryan said, bobbing his head, trying not to smile too hard at the offered escape.

He nodded politely at their audience and slipped away, much to their disappointment, no doubt. Locating the refreshment table was easy, at least, and he’d barely picked up a glass and filled it when Jon sidled up to him with a smile.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, absolutely,” Ryan replied, and Jon laughed.

“Not much longer now until we can leave.”

Ryan nodded. He knew Jon could tell that he was looking forward to it. It wasn’t as though the ball was particularly unpleasant, but it was loud and overwhelming, and Ryan would be glad when they could finally take their leave without seeming rude. But all in all, things were good. Sally was waiting for them back at the townhouse, and Jon had promised that come summer, they – the three of them – would visit Swanns, see Ryan’s father and spend some time at the beach, whatever Ryan wanted.

Ryan didn’t particularly care. It was enough that Jon had offered, that Jon cared, that Jon was his husband and wanted Ryan to be happy. Enough that, when Jon lightly brushed the back of his hand against Ryan’s, he could feel the cool metal of Jon’s wedding ring.

When he glanced over, he saw Jon biting his lip. A moment later, he shifted minutely closer, and slowly, stealthily, wrapped his fingers around Ryan’s wrist. “Run away with me, Ryan Walker,” he said, voice low. “Far, far away.”

They wouldn’t, Ryan knew that; not while Mr. Walker was still alone. So it was easy to laugh, and tease, “To India?”

Jon shrugged a little, a flush crawling over his cheeks. “Well, to the gardens, so I can kiss you. I really want to kiss you.”

“Your father asked for punch,” Ryan protested feebly.

Jon took the glass he held up for emphasis from his fingers and nodded briefly to someone over Ryan’s shoulder. “My father wanted to protect you from too many prying questions, and he can see that you’re with me. He’ll be fine.”

Ryan swallowed. “Well then,” he said carefully. “I suppose I might be persuaded to run away to the gardens with you.”

Jon set the glass of punch down on the table. “Come with me, then,” he said. “Quickly, before anyone else tries to ensnare the newlyweds.”

Ryan nodded, and followed on Jon’s heels when he strode away, so sure-footed he had to know where he was going. Ryan darted a quick glance over his shoulder, half hoping there was no one to witness their inappropriate behavior, and half wishing someone would just so they’d have something to whisper about that Ryan wouldn’t be ashamed of.

Because Ryan wasn’t ashamed of this. There was nothing for him to _be_ ashamed of, because Jon, as a husband, was absolutely lovely. Not perfect, certainly not, but sweet and attentive, and everything Ryan could have hoped for. He even, Ryan had been relieved to discover, was a conscientious lover. He had an inexperienced touch, fumbling and shy, but was keen on watching for Ryan’s reaction whenever he tried something new. Once, he had admitted in the darkness of the night to asking his already married, more rebellious friends for advice. The thought that Jon might share details of their marriage bed with others made Ryan’s cheeks burn, but he could not deny that, if these exchanges were responsible for the lack of pain and, indeed, pleasure Ryan was experiencing, he was thankful that they had taken place.

He had to admit, if only to himself, that there was a small but adamant part of him that wanted the whole world to see how well his life had turned out in the end. For all the naysayers to witness his happiness. But it was of no consequence in any case, for there was only Jon, leading him around one corner and then another, into a corridor headed straight for wide open parlor doors with just a glimpse of a terrace visible beyond.

They were almost outside, halfway down the abandoned corridor, rushing and laughing, when Jon caught Ryan’s hand and drew him to a halt. “You know I would, don’t you?” he asked seriously. “Run away to India with you, if that was what you wanted.”

A starburst of emotion exploded in Ryan’s stomach, unexpected and warm. He laid his fingers on Jon’s jaw and kissed him, right there in the corridor where anyone might see. “I know,” he said. “But this is just fine.”

 

 

The End


End file.
